The Flames of Contempt
by Hanyolo
Summary: The Season Unending is upon Skyrim: her children spill their own blood, setting her ablaze with their courage and hate. The specter of the World-Eater looms, his army of the dead gathering in the depths. A brash young Dragonborn, struggling to rebuild the Akiviri Dragonguard, finds his neutrality tested, while a sinister, forsaken evil seeks to put an end to his legend.
1. The Madmen of the Reach

_"We are the people who must pillage our own land, burn our own ground. We are the scourge of the Nords: The axe that falls in the dark, the scream before the gods claim your soul. We are the true sons and daughters of the Reach." -_ From 'The Madmen of the Reach: A Defense of the Forsworn,' by Arrianus Arius

* * *

The sun beat down at the apex of a clear blue sky as the fields of Rorikstead burned.

Surrounded by the din of his screaming kin, Erik ap Mralki cupped his eyes to protect them from the glare. Far overhead he could make out a reptilian form gliding about on leathery wings, casting a magnificent and terrible shadow over the burning wheat. The smoke hung low and thick around him as he notched another arrow to his father's bow.

"The fire is spreading!" screamed one of his fellow townsfolk.

"It must not reach the village!"

"What do we do?!"

Erik narrowed his eyes and knelt on one knee, bringing the bow up and leading his airborne target as he had been taught. A great screeching cry sent the villagers scrambling for safety. They tripped and tumbled over one another, clamoring for shelter from the creature. Erik stayed where he was.

The monster tucked in its wings to its side, allowing its massive, aerodynamic body to build up speed as it careened towards the ground. Erik stood his ground. He felt droplets of sweat bead and stretch across his forehead; he ignored them, closing one eye to steady his aim.

As it neared the ground the beast unfurled its wings, using their drag to slow its descent, and opened its mouth to reveal a cavernous pit of glistening, curved teeth. It was almost upon him now, not fifty yards and closing quickly. A pair of beady green eyes, utterly alien, their pupils no more than horizontal slits, met his own. He saw its chest expand as it sucked in its breath. Adjusting his aim slightly to the right, he pulled the bowstring back beyond its tested limit, heard the wood creak, felt his arm and shoulder muscles groan in protest, then loosed the arrow.

It struck the beast in the wing at the perfect angle, the jagged tip tearing a gaping hole in the leathery appendage, just as the monster had begun to exhale. The beast's nostrils puffed a cloud of smoke as its breath became a pained cry; the wound, although small, caused it to momentarily dip to the side. It was too close to the ground to correct its flight path: desperately, it stuck out its hind legs and scrabbled at the hard ground to soften the impact, its frantic, thrashing wings utterly askew.

The attempt proved fruitless. Erik had a split second to throw himself out of the creature's way, just barely avoiding a jumble of talons that were as long as his forearm. There was a sickening thump as the beast impacted on the ground: clotted dirt, thrown up by he impact, blocked Erik's vision for a moment. He scrabbled at his face to clear it just in time to see the creature skid right through a thatched hut, disintegrating the building with its unstoppable bulk. It slid to a halt a good ten yards beyond the ruined house, a curved, comet-shaped crater tracing its path through the earth. The villager's screams faltered for a second, then became yells of triumph, but Erik saw the beast begin to stir and knew it was far from dead.

He threw down the bow and reached for his father's old legionnaire sword, thrust haphazardly into a ragged leather belt. He screamed the name of Talos as he yanked the weapon free, no longer caring what Imperial loyalists in the village might say. _If only I had trained with the sword as I have with the bow,_ the cautious, oft-neglected part of his mind thought fleetingly as he closed the gap. But Erik was young and strong and courageous, and ever do the youthful ignore their own mortality.

The monster rolled around sluggishly, a forked tongue lolling about in its open mouth, to see him running towards him. It snapped its head up in an instant and whipped out its nearest wing. Quicker than he could fathom, a bony carapace caught Erik right in the sternum.

Suddenly Erik was flying backwards through the air. He felt all the breath in his body rush out with a pained wheeze; his stomach felt like it had been walloped with an anvil. He struck the ground on his upper back and rolled backwards, heels over head. He felt his ankle twist awkwardly when he came to a stop, but that was the least of his worries; he heaved and flopped like a fish out of water, barely managing to push himself to his knees with trembling arms before falling backwards with the effort. He closed his eyes, curled up into a ball and concentrated on breathing deep; as air trickled back into his system, the spots in his vision began to dissipate. Then he opened his eyes, only to find himself staring into the open maw of the dragon.

Erik did not even have time to think before the beast spat an unforgiving stream of fire right at him. He closed his eyes, feeling the wave of heat roll over him, deafened by the guttural shouted words that he heard accompany the rush of flame. Yet the inferno never reached his body.

He opened his eyes after he felt the heat abate to find an armored human form crouched over him, a huge rounded shield blocking his view of the dragon. He looked up at his savior to see ruby-red eyes staring down at him, peeking through an intricate helmet that crested with the motif of a snarling, serpentine dragon. Erik could tell by the grey-purple hue of his skin, visible only around his mouth and eyes, that he was a Dunmer, one of the dark elves. He wore an elegant set of interlocking armor, steel grey alternating with a shade of dark blue and accentuated with some silvery metal that looked almost a liquid. The armor conformed perfectly to his body: Erik could tell by his pose that it allowed much more flexibility than most heavy plate, while still remaining quite formidable and intimidating. Its streamlined, stylized architecture, engineered towards practicality yet remaining aesthetically pleasing, conjured up the image of some ancient, primal warrior.

"Move, lad," growled the Dunmer, grabbing Erik under the arm and hoisting him upright with surprising strength. The elf hoisted up his shield, which more than three feet in diameter and was decorated in the same style as his armor, and ducked his head behind it, making sure to keep it between the two of them and the dragon. The shield seemed to shimmer and spark in the sunlight, hinting at some enchantment, and Erik surmised that it was coated with a fire-repellant spell.

 _Whoever he is, he knows what he's doing._

The elf supported Erik with his other arm and helped the young man limp over to the nearest cover, the foundations of the ruined hut. He gestured to a sizable pile of rock and wood and deposited Erik behind it. The young Nord grunted his thanks, incapable of much in the way of speech at that moment.

"Don't mention it. Now stay here," the elf ordered, flashing Erik a toothy grin, "and watch the show."

The elf unsheathed a slightly-curved longsword from his back with a flash of quicksilver and sprinted back towards the beast. Only then did Erik become aware that he was not alone: two more figures, dressed in similar, striking armor, engaged the dragon. One of them dipped and dodged around the beast's left flank, a mace in one hand and a curved sword in the other. Erik placed him as Khajiit, both for his graceful speed and the furry whiplike tail that followed his every move. The other was a very tall man, with long blonde hair that cascaded from beneath his helmet down his back, most likely a Nord. He held a gigantic two-handed battleaxe which he had buried deep into the beast's neck.

The beast screamed in pain and rage, rattling its body like a wet dog and sending the Khajiit and the Nord stumbling backwards. The Nord's axe stayed buried in the dragon's neck. The dark elf had reached his target at this point. He took a swing at the beast's maw, shearing off a tooth. The dragon screeched and lashed out with its long, serpentine neck, pushing the Dunmer back, recoiling its head to spit fire at the elf. For a moment Erik thought he was done for: the flames were so thick that the Dunmer disappeared completely from view. Then the barrage dissipated and the elf crawled out from behind his shield: the enchantment had worn off, it seemed, and much of his armor was covered with soot, but he was very much alive and intact.

Taking advantage of the momentary lull, the beast launched itself skyward, shaking its head and neck desperately to dislodge the axe as it took flight. Droplets of blood, carried by the wind and strewn about by the beast's flapping wings, sprinkled Erik's face. The axe wound must have been quite debilitating, for the dragon's attempts at flight seemed sluggish.

The dark elf stood slowly, sending flecks of blackened soot swirling through the air. He dropped his sword and shield, placing both his hands together in front of his face. Summoned by some inaudible word, a pointed spear of ice materialized in front of him and shot upwards, faster than a crossbow quarrel. It did not have far to travel before burying itself in the gullet of the monster.

The dragon shrieked in anguish. The ice spike was half the height of a man and buried up to its wide, blunt end in the upper jaw of the creature, sticking out of the top of its snout at a grotesque angle, covered in a sheet of blood. The dragon gave one last desperate flap of its wings, straining upward, before arcing in a surprisingly graceful semicircle and thudding to the ground.

The three armored warriors fell upon the downed beast. Erik grimaced as the Khajiit slammed its mace into one of the dragon's eyes, exploding the fleshy orb in a splash of bloody juices. The Nord screamed in fury as he wrenched his battle axe free and buried it deeper in the same place in the dragon's neck. The dark elf hacked and cut away, his elegantly curved blade making raggedy mincemeat of the beast's soft belly. The monster shuddered and slowly succumbed to its wounds, its dying thrashes ebbing away to final, awful twitches before it finally lay still.

Erik forced himself upright, testing his ankle and finding that he could walk without much pain. He loped over to congratulate the three dragonslayers, who talked and laughed amongst themselves.

"Got a little cooked there, Erandur," the Khajiit swiped a paw across the Dunmer's shoulder pauldron, throwing up a miniature black cloud of dust and soot, "Getting slow, are we?" His voice was smooth and deep, the crisp, honeyed accent of Elsweyr coloring his command of the common tongue.

Erandur the elf grinned sheepishly, removing his helmet to reveal a flash of white hair: his swarthy face remained uncolored by the dragon's flame. "Lucky it was me and not you, Kharjo, else you'd have no more fur to speak of."

The Khajiit and the Dunmer turned towards Erik as he approached, but the Nord remained with his back towards him, staring at the corpse.

"That was incredible!" he began, throwing up his hands and very nearly losing his balance.

"All in a day's work," Erandur said, patting the front of his cuirass to dislodge the soot, "We've been tracking with that beastie for the past three days. Tangled with it at its roost at Bleakwind Bluff and followed it northwest. Dragon hunting is a patient man's game, son."

Erik turned back to the corpse. Upon closer inspection, he could make out older wounds: the ragged gash of a sword here, the oozing wound of a spear there, as well as several broken bolts and arrows. They were beginning to fester: Erik could see greenish pus taking the place of dried blood in several places. Suddenly Erik felt a little less brash: his arrow had merely been the latest, luckiest wound. He must have looked crestfallen, for Erandur thumped him on the shoulder.

"Now now, boy," Erandur said, smiling good-naturedly, "It's no mean feat to bring down a dragon, even if he's hurting!" His visage was worn, lined by years of hardship, but still emanated warmth. His voice had a distinctive biting drawl that Erik had come to associate with Dunmer commoners. "It takes great courage and a fair bit of skill to stand up to a wyrm like that and come out alive."

"What's your name, Nord cub?" The Khajiit perked up his tufted ears, his unblinking yellow eyes staring curiously up at him. He had feathery grey fur, mottled with brown spots, and a clever face. He appeared to be smiling, but Erik found his crafty, catlike features hard to read. Rorikstead was made up mostly of Skyrim's more native folk - Nords, Bretons, and the occasional Imperial - so Erik knew only a little about Tamriel's more exotic races.

"I'm no cub," Erik said, puffing out his chest. "I am Erik ap Mralki, of Rorikstead. And you must be the Dragonblades of the Reach. I've heard the rumors of your deeds."

Erandur chuckled. "Is that what they call us these days? Dragonblades? I like it. You Nords and your hero worship."

Erik ignored the Dunmer's friendly barb and took a step forward towards the Nord, who stood surveying the downed dragon. "And I know who leads them. You must be the Dragonborn."

The Nord turned around and smiled; his lips were surprisingly full, his eyes heavily-lashed. He reached up and unbuckled his helmet, letting his long, wavy hair descend nearly to his waist. Erik opened his mouth in surprise to find himself looking into the face of a woman.

"What is it, boy?" she asked, smiling wide, "You don't think a woman could slay a dragon?"

Now that he was close enough to notice them, Erik kicked himself for missing the telltale signs: wide hips and a woman's bust, albeit disguised both by plate and brawn. She was taller than he, taller than most men he knew. He guessed her to be past thirty: her features were sharp, no doubt honed by many years of experience, but still possessed a soft, dignified beauty surprising in a warrior such as she. She had covered one side of her face in stripe of green-blue paint that extended from her hairline to her chin.

"You - you're the Dragonborn, then?" Erik asked, after a moment's pause.

The Nord woman shook her head, still smiling. "They call me Mjoll."

"The Lioness," Kharjo interjected with a hiss, which Erik took to be a catlike chuckle, "They call her that because she has more body hair than this one. It is truth."

Mjoll punched him affectionately in the bicep, their plate clanging loudly upon impact. The Khajiit recoiled in mock pain.

"Mjoll the Lioness?" Erik asked with wonder, "From the bards' tales?"

A pained look flashed over Mjoll's face, soon replaced with a melancholy smile. "I'm afraid so."

"The Dragonborn will be along soon, Nordling," Erandur explained, tactfully changing the subject, "He's to the south, near Fort Sungard, hunting a frost wyrm. Last we heard, anyways."

"Alright, boys," Mjoll said, fixing her battleaxe to her back, "Let's mark the map and get moving."

Erik was a little overwhelmed being in the presence of a folk hero, but it was clear than Mjoll did not plan to indulge his curiosity. Instead, he kept quiet and watched as Erandur reached into a belt pouch and pulled out a tightly-folded wad of paper and a charcoal pen. He began to unfold what must be a map when sounds of a commotion filled their ears.

By this point, the villagers of Rorikstead had emerged from their homes; they rallied to the village well, buckets and blankets clutched in their arms, hurrying to end the blaze that was consuming the village's rich fields.

Mjoll placed a firm hand on Erandur's writing arm, her smile disappeared and replaced with grim determination. Erik gasped and started forward, but a flash of pain in his ankle slowed his pace. He turned to the three armored blades.

"I know you have already slain the dragon," he panted, grimacing in the momentary pain, "but please, help us put out the fire!"

Mjoll nodded and strode forth without another word. Kharjo flattened his ears and followed. Erandur stuffed the partially-folded map back into his belt and ran over to Erik, helping to support his weight.

"Gods damn me, boy," he said ruefully, "Looks like I'll have more soot to shake off before the day's done."

* * *

"The Blades as they are, it seems to me, are horribly suited to the act of slaying dragons," the old man said, petulantly, between bites of mutton.

Erik watched as the nondescript Breton woman sitting across from him smiled patiently; she had hardly said a word since the small party of dragonslayers had arrived back from their expedition. Kharjo, leaning back in his chair next to Erik as he filed his long, curved nails, hissed noncommittally. Erandur smoked his long porcelain pipe, staring pensively into the flickering flames of the central fire pit and ignoring their conversation. Mjoll was the only one who met the man's challenge.

"We made quick work of the dragon at Rorikstead," she defended, "As we have with these others."

She gestured to the dragon skulls that decorated the walls of Sky Haven Temple's main hall. They complimented the curved, flowing architecture of the large room rather well. When Erik had first entered the ancient fortress that afternoon, Erandur had mentioned that the Temple had been constructed in the Akiviri style, almost three millennia ago. Erik was no scholar, but he could see similarities between its elegant construction and that of the armor they had worn into battle. The graceful structure was a far cry from the simple, practical Nordic style found in Rorikstead.

The dragon skulls were a later edition, it seemed, slain by the Dragonborn and the Blades and dragged back to be hung as trophies. Light from the firepit danced across their sunken eye-pits, their wide, gaping jaws and their razor-sharp teeth in such a way that almost made them appear to move. There were eight of them in all, bleached white and impossibly clean. Erik wondered how much of a pain it had been to scrub them to such a sheen. As intimidating as the skulls looked, Erik also noticed that there was plenty of wallspace that still needed decorating. They had left the carcass of the newly-slain dragon near Rorikstead, but when he had pressed Erandur to tell him why, the Dunmer had simply shook his head and shrugged off his question.

"Three days spent limping after a wounded beast is not what I'd call quick work," the man snapped back, swallowing his bite of mutton. "Ornate plate and flashing katanas may look fetching in a fight, but they make piss-poor implements for waging war with flying, firebreathing beasts. You were lucky Rorikstead didn't burn to the ground!"

"Easy for you to say, old man," Mjoll replied, offended, "You sit in here all day reading books and looking at that carved wall instead of slaying the damned things."

The old man cackled. He must have been pushing eighty. He was a lanky sack of skin and bones: he was even taller than Mjoll, with wide, protruding shoulders, large callused hands and an impossibly thin frame. Despite his advanced age his body was filled with some manic energy, as if possessed by a mad daedric prince: he jerked about with quick, unpredictable movements as he delivered quipped insults and improvised lectures. His forearms were stained with ink, as were the rolled-up sleeves of his simple furred jerkin. His head was the only part of his body that showed his age: his face was grizzled and gaunt, topped off with a shock of white hair and neatly confined by a well-trimmed silvery beard. His nose was hooked and bent, no doubt broken many a time, and wrinkles dominated every nook and cranny of his visage. His blue eyes, however, remained as sharp as his wit.

"Tell me you don't prefer that axe to any blade because it's long enough to keep you at a safe distance, Lioness," he said, gesturing to Mjoll's axe and pronouncing her title with a mocking ring. "And tell me the same couldn't be accomplished with a nice long spear or a thick crossbow." He paused and turned to Erik.

"As I understand it, you have this young idiot's bow to thank for downing the beast in the first place."

Erik felt his face go flush - he didn't want to get caught in the middle of any dispute.

"We get it, old man," Kharjo interjected, sounding vexed, "We'll start carrying bows, set up target practice-"

"I'm not just talking about training, you furred imbecile, I'm talking about recruiting! To speak nothing of marksmanship, the only one of you lot who knows a couple of spells is a thrice-damned dark elf and a spellsword-for-hire."

The old man paused and looked around the room, frowning, before continuing.

"Speaking of which, where in Oblivion is Marcurio? He and those other two oafs were supposed to have returned by now."

"Last this one heard they were in Dragonbridge," Kharjo replied nonchalantly, looking back down at his claws. "Investigating dragon bounties in lower Eastmarch."

"That's Imperial territory," Mjoll said, looking troubled, "And anywhere that's Imperial territory is Thalmor territory."

The old man shook his head. "Damned mercenaries. Letting their lust for gold trump their common sense. This is what I'm talking about! We can't expect sellswords to throw themselves against dragons without compensation, and Blades don't get paid very well, I can tell you that."

"Benor's no sellsword," Kharjo interjected, his voice calm, borderline disinterested, "And Cosnach will fight anything that moves, be it giant or devil, if he's drunk enough. Say what you will about Marc, but he has fought well for us so far, and even saved this one's life once or twice."

The old man cleared his throat and continued. "Nevertheless. Hiring him was a gamble, one I don't agree with. Next time, you lot ought to try recruiting those that don't shout about and swing their swords to compensate for the pea-sized brains in their skulls. Or go charging into the waiting claws of the thrice-damned elves just to score some Jarl's tax-riddled reward money."

"Enough, Esbern," said the Breton woman, her voice quiet and low. She stood, allowing Erik to get a good look at her. She was of middling height and age. She had long, fair hair that was streaked with grey. She kept it pulled tightly back into a low braid that made her features appear all the more hawkish. Her face betrayed nothing, no sign of any emotion, and even her clothing, boiled leather practice plate over a simple blue tunic, was plain. She looked utterly unremarkable, except for a pair of steel-colored eyes. Erik felt his entire soul laid bare before that piercing gaze.

"So the Grandmaster speaks," Esbern said, smiling slyly. Erik raised an eyebrow. _This woman, so utterly unimpressive, Grandmaster of the Blades_?

"You speak sense, Esbern," said the woman, holding up her hand in a resigned fashion, "No one disputes your words."

Mjoll's irritated grunt indicated otherwise, but the Breton spoke over her.

"The armor and sword are better suited for wars with men, and not dragons," she conceded, "But there is some value to them still, as a symbol. Every Blade carries an Akiviri katana. This has been the case ever since the ancient Akiviri Dragonguard made the Ember Covenant with Reman Cyrodil. That a Blade might outfit himself with more specific weapons to suit his needs is a matter of common sense."

"Quicksilver-enriched steel lends itself well to enchantment," Erandur interjected, breaking his silence at last, "And the plate moves and bends with ease. The Blades of old were wise to invest in such quality armor."

"I know that. I used to wear some, dammit," Esbern cut in impatiently, grinding his teeth. "Regardless, your tactics must evolve. For every dragon you put in the ground, two more claw themselves up from the earth. The rate of their appearance is unprecedented, and so a new precedent for killing the damn things must be set. As you know, Alduin's return is nigh."

From the way that Kharjo rolled his eyes, Erik gathered that this was a lecture they'd heard before.

"At least find us a good smith next time!" Esbern said, noticing the eyeroll and changing the topic, "Quicksilver alloy is tough to work with, to say nothing of ebony. And _no_ , Mjoll, crafting dagger after dagger will not make you a master metalworker anytime soon."

"Spearheads are no challenge," Mjoll said testily. Erik could already tell that she was the type to let pride interfere with common sense - an affliction held by many Nords, he reminded himself. Then again, from what he had heard she was a hero of sorts: one rarely becomes the subject of a bard's tale without a surplus of pride.

"I've been enchanting armor and shields before battles," Erandur pointed out, "I understand Marcurio has some skill in that arena as well. And your spells have helped, old man, tiresome though they were to implement in the first place."

The Breton woman spoke before Esbern could reply, leaning forward over the long table. "These are stopgap measures. Enchanted armor is useful, but it's not spellforged. I'll give credit where it is due: you lot know how to kill dragons. It's been near to a year since they started to return, and, Gods be good, you've trained hard and killed your fair share since then. But eight in as many months is not enough to turn the tide."

"Delphine speaks the harsh truth," the old man said wryly, "Expansion is our priority. Erik, boy, I hope you're as stout as you look; for better or for worse, you'll be a Blade soon enough. We can't exactly afford to turn you away."

Erik nodded, unsure of how to reply. Esbern cackled again, shaking his head.

"Whether your thick skull is as empty as it seems remains to be seen."

"Lay off the boy, Esbern," Kharjo said lazily, flicking the remnants of a hangnail into the fire, "What of Alduin's Wall? Will you tell us what you know now, old man?"

Esbern sucked in his breath sharply and shifted his gaze over Erik's shoulder. Erik was confused for a moment, then turned and followed the old man's gaze towards the far wall. It was dominated by a massive carving, surrounded with piles and piles of books, scrolls and loose parchment. From that distance, in the half-light, Erik could make out the huge dragon motif that dominated the middle of the memorial, as well as fire - lots of fire. The finer details were partially obscured, but one side of the carving appeared to depict a legion of warriors. The other side, Erik could not make out.

"That is best reserved for the ears of the Dragonborn," Esbern replied, his voice quieter. At that moment he looked his age - an old man weighed down by the hardships of a trying existence in a realm increasingly dominated by war.

"The Dragonborn has returned," came a voice from over Erik's shoulder. It was a woman's voice, with a strange accent. He turned around to see two figures, man and woman, stalking out of the gloom of the Karthspire's tunnel and into the light.

The man was a Nord, and the first thing Erik noticed was the large dragon skull he carried slung over his right shoulder. He cut an impressive figure carrying that great burden, but as he strode closer, Erik could see he was sweating with the effort, using both arms to steady the massive trophy and trying hard not to grimace visibly. Like the others it was bleached white, impossibly clean, looking for all the world as if someone had scooped it neatly out of a dragon's face without disturbing any of the gristle and gore that lined it. Mjoll rose and hurried over, helping him lower the skull to the ground. The others rose to meet him, but Erik hung back a little to watch. The second newcomer, a young woman who dressed strangely, stood apart as well, leaning against the wall in a haughty manner.

One by one, Mjoll, Erandur and Kharjo stepped forward to greet the Nord enthusiastically and embrace him. Erik was struck by his youth: he was a little older than Erik, no more than twenty five, with a boyish smile that complimented a taught, classically Nordic jawline. He had wavy, dirty blond hair that fell slightly past his shoulders, which he had pulled back into a low half-ponytail to keep out of his face. He had decorated his left cheek with two zig-zagged strokes of blue warpaint in the shape of thunderbolts, which stretched over his eye and down to his lips. A scraggly beard, trimmed only ever occasionally, complemented the traveling Nord hero look. His soft green eyes and slight, pointed nose, however, bespoke some other blood, perhaps a touch of Elvish. It was reflected in his physique as well, for he was shorter than Erik, and leaner too. He wore a simple scaled coat, reinforced with hardened leather and strips of steel over his arms and thighs. He had dyed it the signature dark blue that colored the other Blade's armor, and evidently reinforced it with a layer of fur. A bandolier slung over his right shoulder evidently helped to secure a Akiviri katana to his back, the hilt of which looked a little dilapidated.

Erik couldn't help but notice how the three Blades gravitated towards him, and it did not take long to understood why. He had a lopsided grin that dominated his whole face, a smile Erik found immediately trustworthy. The way he shook their hands, hugged them close, and laughed at their words seemed utterly genuine. He had all the makings of a legendary hero - a troubled youth, blessed with a mysterious power, predestined to battle the scourge of Skyrim - and here he was, making dirty jokes with a Khajiit hireling and a Dunmer battlemage. He was young, yes, but looked quite capable, and to have survived battling dragons for the past year was no mean feat. Not to mention, of course, convincing others to follow him into battle with the beasts. After Esbern and Delphine had padded over - Delphine's dignified nod completely at odds with Esbern's sheepish, almost fatherly embrace - the man turned to Erik. He smiled and clasped Erik's hand in his own.

"I trust you are as trustworthy as your grip implies," he said with a grin, "What's your name?"

"Ah, Erik, Dragonborn, sir," Erik replied, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"Please, Erik, nobody around here calls me that," he replied, "My name is Jakt. You're the one from Rorikstead, I take it?"

"Yes, si - Jakt."

"Good little town. Hardly touched by the war, thank the Gods. If I'd grown up there I might not ever have left. What made you want to?"

Erik swallowed. "The dragons. Someone's got to stand up to them, or villages all over Skyrim with go up in flame" He decided not to tell Jakt how boring he actually found Rorikstead, and how his thirst for adventure more than anything else had compelled him to take up with the Blades.

The Dragonborn nodded; he seemed to have a habit of squinting as he thought. "And that someone is us," he continued Erik's sentiment. "You look strong and capable. Do you have much fighting experience?"

"My father was a legionnaire," Erik explained, gesturing to the sword at his belt, "He fought in the Great War. He taught me the basics, but I was always better with the bow."

Jakt smiled. "A much more practical weapon for dealing with airborne beasts. My father was a legionnaire as well. Fought in the Battle of the Red Ring, I believe. You're lucky to have known yours. I never knew mine."

Erik was unsure of how to reply. He didn't want to tell Jakt about his overbearing, anxious father, who had only taught him how to swing a blade because a twelve-year-old Erik had threatened to run away to Whiterun and join up with the Companions of Jorrvaskr if he did not.

He was saved from responding, as the Dragonborn's traveling companion chose that moment to interrupt. She walked up to the circle and faced the Blades, crossing her arms in defiance, and her proximity to the firelight allowed him to catch a decent glimpse of her at last.

She looked to be one of the Reachmen: predominantly of Breton and Elvish ancestry, they were the Reach's original occupants, before the first of the Nord kings conquered Skyrim in their name. She had long, tangled hair that was redder than blood. Her striking, angular features possessed some wild, untamed beauty. Her eyes were large and brown, and while they were currently narrowed in a wary fashion, he thought he could still make out some trace of warmth buried within them. Short and slender, she wore a distinctive style of outfit that Erik had seen once or twice before, but never up close. It was a macabre mixture of animal products, made up of fur, leather, and bone. It left little to the imagination: the top half terminated above her midriff, and the bottom half consisted of a skirt that was slit quite far up one thigh. Reinforced gauntlets and knee-high boots completed her primitive yet undeniably fierce look. Her body was lithe and supple and young, and looking at her made Erik feel a little warm inside. She could not have been older than eighteen.

"Not you again," groaned Esbern, "What do you want now?"

"My chieftain and King, Rhydderch the Unbowed, Scourge of the Reach and Lord of the Druadach Range, demands an audience with the false knights of Karthspire, slaughterers of his free folk."

"Denied," Delphine said, her tone flat and unforgiving. The girl recoiled, and at that instant Erik recognized what she was: one of the Forsworn, the Witchmen who preyed on the goodly folk of the Reach. Theirs was a campaign of terror: whereas normal bandits fall upon caravans to plunder them, it was said the Forsworn rarely looted their victims. Instead, they left behind everything - especially the corpses - striking only for the sake of their cause. He felt cold fury replace his curiosity, as well as shame for ever considering the girl attractive.

"Tell your king," Delphine continued, "That there is no need for an audience. We are content to ignore his lordship so long as he keeps his raiding parties clear of Karthspire. Tell him that no audience will ever be necessary, and to please stop sending his deranged underlings to die upon our swords."

"Delphine," Jakt interjected, looking a little worried, "You ought to let her finish."

"I will never understand your tolerance for this foolish girl, Jakt," Delphine replied, her tone turning harsh and cutting, "You let her frolic through our territory unharmed, practically _spoonfeeding_ her our movements and positions, and all manner of information that she might report back to her mongrel king. The Forsworn are not to be negotiated with. They only understand the use of force, and it is the only thing they respond to."

"Have Cosnach, Marcurio, and Benor returned yet? Have you heard from them at all?" Jakt asked, ignoring her stern words completely. Erik watched a flash of outrage pass over Delphine's face, but the concern evident in Jakt's question made her pause.

The Forsworn girl looked smug as she confronted Delphine. "The Breton drunk you call Cosnach is our prisoner," she said, reaching over her shoulder and producing a long, slender bundle wrapped in furs. It was long - perhaps three feet - and slightly curved.

"Fret not," she said as she began to unwrap it, "He lives. We are capable of staying our hand, unlike you, Delphine the Butcher."

She threw the unwrapped implement down at her feet. It clanged on the floor. It was an Akiviri katana, coated in dried blood.

Nobody said a word, just stared down at the blade.

"He will live for two more days," the girl spoke at last, "On the morning of the third day, my King will be waiting at the Great Stone Obelisk. He commands that you meet with him there. If you do not come, we will burn the Breton drunk as an offering to the Old Gods, and use his death to curse the name of the Blades to the deepest reaches of Oblivion."

Delphine narrowed her eyes dangerously and shifted her eyes to Jakt.

"We don't have a choice," he said uneasily, "If they really have Cosnach, as she claims..."

"Well, my boy," Esbern replied, throwing up his hands, "I'm staying here. I'm too old to throw myself into a Forsworn ambush and bleed out on a splintered axe made of hardened spit and bone."

"It isn't an ambush, you senile old man," replied the Forsworn girl, tossing her hair defiantly, "You have refused every other offer for counsel from King Rhydderch. He seeks only to parley. The Breton's survival is conditional upon your presence."

Erik sidled over to Kharjo, who watched with an unreadable expression.

"Who is she?" he whispered to the Khajiit.

"The Forsworn cub?" he asked, swiveling his catlike gaze towards Erik. The Khajiit's eyes, with their shiny yellow irises and slitlike pupils, made him feel uneasy.

"Why is she here?"

The Khajiit hissed softly, thinking. "Whenever the Forsworn want to contact us, they send her. Her clan used to live here, it is said, and Jakt and Delphine had to drive them off. Khajiit thinks she is a reminder, to play off his guilt."

Erik looked at Jakt, studying the way the young Dragonborn conducted himself around her. His shoulders hung low, his face seemed to droop a little, and he seemed a bit… cowed, to say the least. Delphine was the opposite - attentive, sharp, mistrusting. Her sword arm clutched at her belt with purpose. He wondered what had transpired when the Blades had first come to occupy the mountain temple.

"What's her name?"

"Gwynlach," Mjoll growled, "Now pay attention. You might learn something."

Erik shut up and did as he was told, rejoining the conversation. Esbern had sauntered off to study the grand carving they had mentioned earlier.

"She mean's Gjukar's Monument," Jakt was saying, his tone urgent, "It's at least a day's travel to the east. We need to decide now."

"Very well," Delphine's reply came bitterly. "We will treat with them. But you will return to the Greybeards when this business is concluded."

Jakt furrowed his brow. "I am needed here. Anything they could possibly teach me I'll learn so much quicker by actually fighting dragons. Besides, you like them even less than I do!"

Delphine snorted. "Be that as it may," she started reproachfully, "Esbern seems to think they can help us confront Alduin's return. And the Blades will manage without the Dragonborn, as they have for the past two millennia."

Jakt crossed his arms irritably. "Fine. Whatever you say. Let's just get moving."

Delphine turned to Erik and sighed. "Better get him some proper plate. And find your own. We'll be wanting to look the part."

* * *

The sun crested over the horizon, welcoming the dawn of Erik's third day as a Blade conscript. He had gradually grown used to wearing the plate. He was a strong young man, having spent the past fifteen years toiling in the fields and the past ten running, hunting and sparring with the children of Rorikstead. But traveling in full plate armor - even exquisitely crafted in the Akiviri style - proved to be a challenge. Although the range of motion was impressive, and the weight well distributed to his hips and lower back, the plate was still damned heavy.

His only other experience had been his father's Imperial legion armor, which was designed to provide maximum protection to soldiers marching in the phalanx formation. The Blade's signature armor was instead better suited to flexible, open-ended combat. The breastplate was segmented to allow the abdomen to bend, and instead of heavy greaves the armor incorporated a long tasset that hung from the belt and descended almost to the knees. It consisted of boiled leather and narrow strips of steel, padded with fur to provide further protection and to account for Skyrim's colder months. It was partitioned to allow maximum leg movement. Erik got the sense that the heavy round shields the Blades all wore at their backs were just for show, though he had seen Erandur use his to defend against dragon's breath quite ably.

"It's not very practical armor for an agent or provocateur," Jakt had remarked as Erik had struggled to fit his on, "But it looks damn good and it sure has kept up well. For some reason the Blades left an entire contingent's worth here when they left."

Erik had an opportunity to walk beside each of the Blades and familiarize himself with them during the two-day march to Gjukar's Monument. It was all immensely exciting, and he got the sense that the others appreciated his exuberance but found it a bit tiresome at times. Only Delphine remained cold and aloof, but Erik suspected that was her default state.

Kharjo, it seemed, was new to Skyrim. He had joined a Khajiit caravan bound for the northern province at the behest of his cousin, in order to escape debts that he owed in his home province of Elsweyr. He spoke of his homeland with some melancholy: he missed its warm sands, sweet foods and shimmering oases, and cautioned Erik good-naturedly against seeking one's fortunes in the gambling hall. A dragon attack had separated him from his caravan, and Jakt had come across him alone, badly burnt, waiting to die. Instead, after nursing the Khajiit back to health, the young Dragonborn had enlisted Kharjo's help to slay the beast, and he became the first of his Knight Brothers soon after. Erik had known Khajiit who were scoundrels, fleet of foot and quick of hand, but Kharjo was built like a warrior: stocky and strong, with muscles rippling under his coarse grey fur. The mace at his belt was a formidable weapon, one he seemed to prefer to the Akiviri katana at his back.

"The katana is a good sword," the Khajiit had explained, his eyes glinting as he patted the blunted weapon, "Perhaps even a great one. You should see what Delphine can do with it. But against thick plate armor it is near to useless. This one saves Skullbreaker for such occasions."

It was a trend that Erik began to notice amongst the Blades: they seemed to carry auxiliary weapons, from Mjoll's battleaxe to Kharjo's mace. Erandur carried a simple wooden walking staff, inlaid with a diamond-shaped gem at the very tip. When pressed about its magical properties, the Dunmer simply grinned knowingly.

The dark elf was slim and swarthy, a goodnatured jest never far from his lips. His general cheeriness seemed a coping mechanism to Erik, and when pressed, the Dunmer admitted that he had once known the darkness of Daedric worship, common amongst his people. He would not speak further of this, but went on to say he had found the light of Lady Mara and fled south into the Reach, living as a hermit and doing his best to spread Her teachings. A fateful dragon attack had brought him into the company of the Blades: sorely in need of a healer, they gratefully accepted him into their fledgeling ranks. His religious conviction seemed to mask some uncertainty, as yet unanswered, but it seemed to Erik that Erandur did believe he was doing Mara's work. Erik had known few Dunmer, but had always found them mysterious and strange-humored. Theirs was a race that had suffered much, and Erandur, it seemed, was no exception.

Mjoll was a different story. Erik had heard traveling minstrels sing songs about the Lioness of the Pale at his father's inn; the tales of her sword Grimsever cutting a righteous swath through the thieves and bandits that had plagued the land since the end of the Great War. Meeting the legend in the flesh proved to be somewhat of a letdown. Mjoll seemed tired: she was the oldest of the bunch save for Delphine (and Esbern, of course) and though she never complained, he could sense a weariness that colored her every joint. She had joined the Blades after an ill-fated expedition to the Rift. Though she spoke openly about it, her shame was evident. Her attempts to cleanse the blackened belly of Riften - the seat of corruption and deceit in Skyrim - had cost her her fabled sword, her reputation, her dearest friend and very nearly her life. She had been fleeing west when she heard the tales of the dragon-hunters and, seeking some sort of redemption, joined their ranks. Mjoll was a proud creature punctured by failure, a warrior past her prime. Erik found her stoic sense of self - so distinctly Nordic - oddly comforting, especially given that the Dragonborn himself was a foreigner.

Jakt, although Nordic in blood, had grown up in Cyrodil. He was tight-lipped on the subject: all he would say was that his father left him young and his mother died soon after, leaving him to fend for himself. He had gestured to the painted markings on his cheek, mentioning offhand that it was the mark his father had painted himself with before battle, and something his mother did to him as a child that he continued to do out of habit more than anything else. After a long, lonely adolescence filled with hardships, he found his way into bad company, enlisting with a string of mercenary bands and traipsing about southern Tamriel. He joined the Fighters Guild at eighteen and after his stint with that more reputable organization had come home to Skyrim to seek his heritage. Rebuffed on all accounts, imprisoned and nearly executed for a crime that he did not commit, he had instead come to realize that he was the fabled Dragonborn of Nordic legend. He laughed as he said it, shaking his head with a bitter smile. "Fate is fickle, Esbern always says," Jakt had said, his story finished.

Although he seemed good-natured and welcoming, Jakt was hardly patient: some frenzied, obsessive force seemed to lurk under his calm facade. He could be expressive and forthright, and then suddenly become frustrated and aloof. He hurried their company on at a relentless pace, stopping only when Delphine threatened to beat him with the blunt end of her sword. Erik was struck by his strange perception of loyalty: he seemed surprised to the point of insecurity that the Blades followed him willingly as he charged into what was most likely a trap. On the other hand, he seemed all too willing to throw himself into the fray to rescue his brethren, with or without aid, at the cost of his life if need be. It was as if he expected that all who followed him would eventually, inevitably leave him, unless he proved his loyalty to a fault.

At the same time he seemed inexplicably willing to acquiesce to Gwynlach, the Forsworn girl, who had become their seventh companion. She spoke little to the others, preferring to scout ahead during their travels, but Jakt seemed drawn to her, and it very plainly made the rest of their company nervous. Erik finally conjured up the gall to ask him about it, but he only muttered something about guilt and regret, and waved the matter away. He seemed a conflicted man, and Erik could scarcely believe that he and Jakt were close in age. The burden of newfound significance and leadership weighed heavily on the young Nord's shoulders, that much was obvious.

He was in a stony mood as they summited the gently-sloping hill where Gjukar's Monument perched. It was a simple stone obelisk, tapered at the bottom and the top: a slightly younger Erik would have found it hilariously phallic. His slight, childish amusement was tempered by the small swarm of Forsworn that waited there already. The early morning sun beamed down, giving the scene a deceptively cheerful air, and the temperature was nearly balmy by Skyrim's standards.

The Blades marched to a halt and stood at attention in a row, some ten yards away from the rag-tag group of Reachmen. They milled about silently, watching the interlopers, their faces blank; their ragged clothing, makeshift weaponry and bony jewelry made them appear downright eerie, wraithlike. There must have been fifteen in all, men and women, all carrying weapons of bone, chipped stone, wood, and occasionally iron or steel. Erik squinted hard, trying hard to determine who among them might be King Rhydderch. He was unsuccessful.

Delphine took a step forward and removed her helmet; Erik, who had already began to feel uncomfortably warm in his plate, wished he could do the same, but the rest of them remained where they stood. He concentrated on keeping his shield held out before him instead, which was surprisingly difficult. He glanced over to see Erandur at his left sweating through his helmet, and smiled to himself, knowing he was not alone. He was surprised to see that Gwynlach remained at their side, standing attentively next to Jakt.

"I am Delphine ap Carimund," she said, her clear voice ringing through the air and echoing off the Druadach range to the southwest, "Grandmaster of the Blades and First Sword of the Dragonguard. I come here seeking to parley with Rhydderch of the Forsworn, at his behest."

"King Rhydderch," came a low growl, and out stepped a brute of a man. He was built like an orc, thick with muscle; he wore a spectacular headdress that was decorated with the antlers of an elk. Around his trim waist he wore a simple fur kilt, complimented by a pelt that draped over his left shoulder and half of his brawny chest. His face was squat and ugly, no doubt the product of many beatings, and countless scars decorated his arms, chest and stomach. Erik almost didn't notice the slim man at his side, who stepped forward to address Delphine once he had corrected her.

"King Rhydderch, scourge of the Reach and Lord of the Druadach Range, greets Delphine ap Carimund and bids her a humble welcome to his plentiful lands." His voice was soft and raspy; he was thin, swathed in soft fur, with a wizened face and one clouded blind eye. A thick black beard descended from his chin, but he kept the hair on top of his head shaved almost like a monk. He carried only a simple staff. Erik could scarce believe his eyes: if the Forsworn only followed the strong, why had they flocked to this slight, unassuming man, soft of voice and middling of stature?

"The Blades recognize no King of the Forsworn," Delphine responded curtly, "For the Forsworn recognize no king amongst themselves. We are here for a singular reason, Rhydderch. Please do not try our patience."

Rhydderch looked left and right to his people, who hissed in unison. It was an unnerving display: Erik had grown up hearing the tales of the Forsworn, and was beginning to understand why they were feared. The brutish man at Rhydderch's side turned around, grasped a kneeling figure behind him, and pushed him forward, sending him sprawling. He was a short, red-haired man, stripped to the waist, covered with bruises and one poorly-bandaged cut across his midriff. His hands were bound behind his back, and he cursed as he flopped about, trying to work himself back to an upright position. Erik heard Kharjo hiss from down the line, heard Erandur curse Azura's name, and guessed that the man must be Cosnach.

"Behold," Rhydderch said, gesturing to the captive, "Your singular reason."

"What have you done to him?" Delphine asked, her voice deadly calm.

"I found him like this," Rhydderch explained, "He was badly wounded. He would have died if not for my intervention."

"I don't believe you."

"It matters not what you believe," the Forsworn King continued, "Only that you listen to my terms." He produced a red-stained sack from behind him. Even from the distance, Erik could smell its stench. He suddenly felt very uneasy.

Rhydderch upended the sack and out poured two severed heads. Erandur muttered a prayer to Mara at his side, but remained still, along with the rest of the Blades.

Rhydderch paused for dramatic effect, then lifted the heads by the hair. One had pale skin, long golden locks and a considerable beard, soaked with blood; the other was a little darker in pigment, with curly dark hair. Both had horrible expressions frozen on their faces, their features forever twisted in fear and agony. Erik recognized the heads as belonging to an Imperial and a Nord, though the faces were not familiar. He felt his legs trembling slightly, but he forced himself to be calm. He had seen death before, and cruelty as well. _But not like this._

"While you skulk around the Reach, hiding away in your mountain fortress," the Forsworn King began, his tone scathing, "Skyrim's oppressors penetrate further and further into the heart of my fiefdom. They seek the Blades, and the Dragonborn they guard. They murder my brothers and sisters in their ceaseless quest, lay siege to our freedoms and our way of life. I name you Grandmaster of the Craven, Delphine ap Carimund, a false knight who cowers in her fortress while innocents bleed in your stead."

He spat for emphasis, then continued, stalking back and forth, holding both the severed heads high.

"Henceforth you will leave the Reach. You will abandon your coward's refuge in the Karthspire and seek your fates elsewhere. I will allow the Breton to live as a token of my goodwill, but you must abandon your foolish quest. And-" he paused, lowering his trophies, narrowing his eyes - "You must surrender the Dragonborn to me."

"Your terms are unacceptable," Delphine replied flatly. "Surrender Cosnach, and I will allow you to live."

"I thought you would say as much," Rhydderch smiled thinly, "Very well. Skarn, cut the Breton's throat-"

"Wait!" Jakt stepped forward, dropping his shield to unbuckle his helmet. Delphine shot him a fiery look, but the young Nord ignored her, pushing past her to stand in front of Rhydderch and the rest of the Forsworn.

"You would trade my life for his?" Jakt asked defiantly.

"Your existence is an affront to the Forsworn," Rhydderch replied casually, "Your people have enslaved, raped and killed mine for eons. You are a symbol of Nord oppression, and the flames of our contempt shall lick at your bones." Erik was amazed that the words - carrying with them the accusation of a thousand years of murder and cruelty - came so easily to his mouth.

"I won't surrender to you, false king," Jakt spat. In one swift mood he drew his sword from its sheath on his back. It flashed in the morning sun, and the Forsworn scrambled upright, drawing their motley assortment of weapons. Erik felt the tension acutely: it was thicker than fog. But Jakt did not attack, only stood with his weapon unsheathed, pointing the tip of the blade at their leader.

"But I will give you a chance to claim my life," he continued, his voice collected now. "I challenge you to single combat."

Rhydderch laughed. "Done."

Jakt looked surprised.

"It is my right as King of the Forsworn to request a personal champion fight in my stead," Rhydderch continued slowly. "My kinsman, Skarn the Bloodless, will do me this honor."

The big brutish man stepped forward and grunted. "I accept this honor, King."

Erik got the uneasy feeling that Rhydderch had hoped for such an outcome. Jakt turned back to Delphine, his jaw set, but Erik could see the unease in his eyes. The man was big, and looked formidable. Delphine shook her head.

"You made your bed, Jakt," she said reproachfully, "Now you have to lay in it."

"What's the matter, boy?" Skarn shouted, smiling wide to reveal massive, rotting teeth, "Afraid to follow through on empty words?"

With one gesture, he unhooked the pelt draped over his shoulder, revealing his muscular torso. He must have been twice as wide as Jakt, and a good few inches taller, but his bulk was not the most terrifying thing about him: there was a gaping hole in his chest, right where his heart ought to be.

"Shit," Erandur whispered, "He's a Briarheart."

"A what?" Erik replied frantically. Some otherworldly, pulsating object, shaped roughly like a human heart but with a wooden, bark-like texture, pumped and pulsated in the hole. It was held in by crude leather straps, and Erik could make out an eerie green glow emanating from the grotesque organ.

"The Forsworn cut out their hearts and replace them with seed pods from the briarheart tree," Kharjo hissed. "Only their toughest warriors survive the process. Makes them quicker, stronger, near undead."

The brutish Forsworn began to stalk back and forth, taunting Jakt, as the others began to jeer and chant, thumping their weapons on the ground.

"You going to hide behind your armor like some fancy little elf girl?" Skarn bellowed. In reply, Jakt stuck the point of his Katana in the ground and began to slowly unbuckle his armor.

"What are you doing?" Delphine asked through clenched teeth.

"If he's a Briarheart, he'll be quick," the young Nord explained, frowning as he unclasped his belted tasset and then lifted his cuirass over his head. "I'll need to be quicker."

"He'll tear you apart if you're not careful," Delphine replied, eyeing the brute. "Give the word, and I'll order a charge. They might outnumber us, but look what they're equipped with. We'll carve through them like butter. And the Gods know I've fought Briarhearts before-"

"No," Jakt said, frowning. "He'll slit Cosnach's throat before we're halfway there. And I can beat him." He finished removing his armor, and was dressed in only leather boots, thick trousers and a simple linen shirt. His body was lithe and hard, but it looked positively sickly compared to the massive, overworked torso of Skarn the Bloodless. He retrieved his sword and spun it a couple of times, loosening his muscles. The blade was dark and seemed to glisten in the air.

"Going to use your magic sword to fight me?" Skarn taunted him again. "You think I haven't heard the rumors, boy? Dragonbane, _hah_! Too good for plain old steel, are you?"

He spat. "Magic is a woman's weapon! A craven's weapon! Fight me like a man!"

Jakt turned around and walked over to Erik. "Lend me your sword, Erik," he said. It was not a question.

"Jakt-"

"Here," he said, with a lopsided grin, "I'll trade you." He flipped his katana around, caught it gingerly by the blade and offered its dilapidated hilt to Erik. The younger Nord stifled the urge to gasp as he beheld it.

The sword was longer than those of the other Blades', more than a yard in length, and forged from some bizarre metal the color of ash. Despite its dark hue, the glossy metal seemed to glisten like glass. Runes, outlined in quicksilver and scripted in some ancient, flowing script, continued halfway up the blade. The hilt itself was plain, carved from dense white bone; the criss-crossed leather stitching had long since rotted away, leaving only etched grooves. The pommel was a burnished quicksilver square, and the circular guard appeared to have once taken the form of a serpentine dragon, although its fine details had long since faded with age. When Erik touched the hilt, however, he felt a tiny static shock, as if he had just vigorously stroked a shaggy rug. His hand felt warm and tingly as he held it. It must have been heavily enchanted: there was no other way to describe the sensation other than by magical means. It was the most beautiful weapon that Erik had ever held, much less been in the presence of.

"This is why you Nords are so stupid," Kharjo hissed sarcastically to Jakt, "You value honor over practicality. Keep your damn sword, fool boy."

"Relax, Kharjo," Jakt replied, "He isn't a dragon anyways, so it makes little difference. Now then, lad, your sword. No, not your katana, the one at your belt, if you please."

Erik would have been more reluctant to part with his father's sword, but he was still too much in awe of Jakt's own blade to think much about it. He withdrew the blade from its belt-loop and offered it to the Dragonborn. Jakt took a practice swing and nodded.

"Well balanced. Good steel, if a bit simple. Imperial made, I'd wager."

Erik nodded dumbly, his jaw still a little slack.

"If I die, you can keep mine," Jakt said with a confident wink.

"Alright then," Mjoll said, "I've just about heard enough from this milk-drinker. Jakt, go skewer him, already."

Jakt turned around and stalked over to face Skarn. One of the Forsworn in the rabble walked forward with a long, thin bundle of skins wrapped in her arms. A long handle protruded from one end, and it was not difficult to guess what was concealed within. She presented the bundle to Skarn, who grasped the handle and pulled gingerly. A wicked greatsword slowly slid forth: it had a serrated blade comprised of some sickly green alloy, and a crossguard made of bone. A round object that looked disturbingly like a child's skull dangled from a leather strip wrapped around the hilt.

The two men eyes one another for a moment, Jakt standing still, Skarn pacing back and forth. Then the big man opened his mouth and roared, charging forward, wielding his greatsword in one hand with practiced ease.

Erik felt himself tense as the Forsworn champion rushed to meet the Dragonborn. His large, meaty legs pumped impossibly fast given their size, allowing him to close the gap in a manner of seconds. He led with a massive horizontal chop that surely would have cleaved Jakt in two. Erik could have sworn he felt the wind from the swipe across his face from yards away.

But Jakt was not there; smoothly, gracefully, he had stepped out of harm's way. He did not have time to counter with a slash of his own, as Skarn reversed his momentum in the blink of an eye - far quicker than he should have, given his size and the weight of his blade - to bring it down diagonally. Jakt cursed audibly as he spun away from the sword, a desperate maneuver that left him slightly off balance. His blade down and wide, the Forsworn champion led with his massive shoulder instead, catching the Dragonborn right in the sternum and sending the young Nord sprawling over backwards.

Next to Erik, Erandur groaned. Erik tightened his grip on his shield, cutting off all circulation to his fingers. The Forsworn cheered and began to stamp their feet.

Skarn looked down at Jakt, who struggled to rise, and laughed from the very pit of his belly. He let the Dragonborn stand up; Jakt was still struggling to breathe.

"You call this a fight, you worm?" the Forsworn champion bellowed. Erik caught the faintest whiff of his terrible breath and wrinkled his nose. Jakt shook his head to clear the cobwebs, rolled his shoulders and raised his sword.

With that, the big man launched into another attack. His greatsword gave him a greater range, which allowed him to press the offensive; Jakt dared not outright parry him, instead dodging away or deftly sliding the bigger man's blade out wide where he could. Erik saw the frustration on the Nord's face: the leaf-shaped Imperial blade was short - two and a half feet at most - and wide. It was perfect for stabbing in the close quarters of two clashing shield walls, but the greatsword, nearly twice its length, outclassed it in single combat.

"He should have kept his sword," Kharjo hissed, a sour note of desperation in his silky-smooth voice.

Skarn launched into a series of impossibly quick and brutal strikes that kept Jakt on the defensive. The Forsworn crowd's jeers and catcalls grew louder and stronger; they had settled into a surprisingly rhythmic stomp, steadily increasing in tempo. The young Nord struggled to keep ahead of the brute's cruel, whirling blade, just barely dancing out of its way with every vicious slash. Erik was impressed with the young Nord's agility: the way that he moved, twisting and whirling with the ease of a dancer, contrasted almost comically with his expression, which was screwed up in concentration and tempered with fear.

Then, all of a sudden, Jakt faltered, stumbling sideways, reaching out with his left hand to steady himself.

Skarn howled in triumph, bringing his sword across for the killing blow… but it met no resistance, for the Dragonborn was no longer there. His stumble had been a ruse, a clever ploy designed to get Skarn to overextend himself. The Dragonborn had simply shifted his weight and spun out wide, readying his blade to strike. The big Reachman, no stranger to the feint, recognized his mistake and immediately and threw himself sideways. Were he a slower man, he would have found Jakt's sword buried in his side halfway up to its hilt. Instead, Jakt's precise swipe drew a thin diagonal line of across his right side, from his hip to his chest. Jakt completed the spin, bodily fluids whirling off his sword, cursing under his breath when he saw that the wound was shallow. Instead of red, Skarn's blood was a shade of yellow-green, and seemed to coagulate almost like syrup.

The Forsworn din faltered - first blood to the Dragonborn, it seemed - but the big man hauled himself up. He put a finger to the wound and tasted the sticky liquid, then spat in Jakt's direction.

What happened next was a terror to behold.

Jakt sprinted forward, roaring, his face consumed with rage. He swung wildly, uncontrollably, pressing his advantage, not letting the bigger man regain his balance or momentum. With every stroke he shouted a word in some deafening, unintelligible tongue that split the air like thunder, and his sword seemed to fizz and crackle with every swipe. Skarn was quick, but his sword was ill-suited to parry Jakt's shorter blade at a closer distance; he had to backpedal furiously to keep ahead of Jakt's savage attacks. Two of Jakt's mad swipes struck home, giving the brute two more shallow cuts to worry about: one on his left leg, the other between his shoulder and neck.

In a desperate bid to regain control of the battle, the Forsworn champion parried Jakt's next savage strike with all his might. The clang of metal was so loud it stung Erik's ears, leaving behind a painful ring. The blow sent Jakt's blade out wide, and Skarn tried the same tactic as he had before, rushing forward to catch the smaller man in the face with his brawny shoulder. Somehow, impossibly, Jakt managed to twist around him and with fluid grace brought his sword back around and across Skarn's back.

The champion howled and fell to his knees, pawing at his eviscerated flesh with one hand. His saplike blood oozed down his back, and Erik thought he could see a flash of white rib bone through the torn flesh: this wound was deep. Skarn forced himself upright using his sword and turned to face Jakt, his expression an amalgamation of pain and rage. It was the Blades' turn to cheer, and Erik felt his heart race with excitement as he hollered in support.

The brutish man stumbled forward and swung his blade in a wide, low sweep. Jakt sidestepped it easily, parried the clumsy reverse, tapping the serrated blade to the side with an impressively small movement, and stabbed forward to bury his own sword in Skarn's belly.

The crowd went silent. Skarn's face was one of disbelief. The briarheart in his chest seemed to beat quicker, as if under immense strain. Jakt yanked out his blade, took it in both hands, and whirled it around to take the head neatly from Skarn's shoulders.

Then he threw down his sword, angled his head skywards, shouted another strange, foreign word, and breathed a great gout of flame into the air. The steady stream of fire lasted a good twenty seconds: _dragonfire_. The Forsworn groaned and gasped; Erik felt the hairs on his neck stand up like a cat's.

"Release him" growled Jakt, once he had finished with his display of raw power. His command was unnecessary: Cosnach, taking advantage of his captor's stunned inaction, pushed himself upright and sprinted over to the Dragonborn. Jakt produced a knife from one of his boots and cut Cosnach's bindings. The Breton, rubbing his wrists, threw one around Jakt's shoulder and laughed spitefully at his captors; he had a hoarse, raucous voice that cracked as he chortled.

Rhydderch finally regained his composure.

"It seems we are bested today," he said conversationally, although Erik could make out a vein on his forehead that was pulsating quite angrily. "No matter. The Forsworn will never bend the knee, no matter the odds against us. That is why we have survived and thrived, to pick away at the invaders and interlopers, undermining their false claims of sovereignty on our rightful land."

He spat at Jakt's feet. The Dragonborn rippled with fury: Erik could see it in the way he clenched and unclenched his hands. Luckily, Delphine stepped forward before he could do anything else rash.

"Rhydderch," she called, "Do not risk the lives of your people any further. We do not seek to make war on the Forsworn, only the forces of Alduin. Cease your hostilities against us."

Rhydderch was silent for a moment, then continued. "I spoke the truth before," he said, "We merely found the Breton, wounded and alone."

"What of his comrades?" Jakt demanded, "Two others accompanied him, an Imperial and a Nord. What torturous end did you visit upon them?"

"Calm yourself," the Forsworn King replied, "There were no others."

"He speaks true," Cosnach said, quietly. Jakt turned to him incredulously, but the Breton shook his head. "I'll tell ye what happened when we're safely back."

"You bested my champion in single combat," Rhydderch continued, "So I will honor your request." He narrowed his eyes. "Unfortunately, I cannot speak for the Forsworn tribes at large. Support my claim as King, and I will enforce it among them."

"The Blades take no part-" Jakt began, but Delphine interrupted him.

"Done."

The Dragonborn recoiled in surprise. "What?"

"Better the monster we know," she replied, shrugging, before turning back to the king. "We will support your claim where we can, but you must give us the freedom to roam your holdfast. Dragons do not see the Reach with such distinctions as do the Reachmen, I'm afraid."

Rhydderch rubbed his head; he looked weary and distraught for a moment. "The dragons' return has weighed upon us as well. My warriors will aid you where we can, but they are fearsome beasts, and we must look out for our own."

Jakt managed to calm himself, and he and Delphine sat in a circle with Rhydderch and his shaman, a beautiful ashen-haired woman with a gnarled staff, to hammer out further agreements. As their negotiations continued and the day wore on, the other Blades had begun to relax, as the threat of imminent attack was all but gone. They watched, chatting amongst themselves, as several of the Forsworn gathered up Skarn's remains and wrapped them in animal skins.

"Funny how a furious bout of single combat turned into an alliance of sorts," Erik commented.

"The Forsworn recognize strength and tenacity over all else," Kharjo hissed, "It makes them dangerous foes, yes, but useful allies as well, if you can convince them so."

Erandur gestured to Gwynlach, the Forsworn girl: she had padded up to join Jakt, Delphine and Rhydderch as they hammered out the terms of their agreement. Watching her, Erik got the sense that she was not altogether welcome within the ranks of Rhydderch's Forsworn.

"That one is a prime example," said the Dunmer, "Jakt cut his way through her tribe when they first met. She's practically worshipped him ever since."

Erik raised his eyebrows. "But she-"

Kharjo chuckled. "Women express devotion in strange ways, my young friend. Isn't that right, Mjoll?"

"We usually don't have a problem expressing annoyance, you overgrown housecat," came her irritated reply. "Don't listen to this one, boy, he hasn't got a clue."

Kharjo hissed mirthfully. "Khajiit women are easy to understand. If they like one, they will scratch him. If they _don't_ like one, they will scratch him also. Just different types of scratchings. One should assume one will be scratched."

Mjoll rolled her eyes; Erandur shook his head good-naturedly. Cosnach laughed long and hard. He was not a handsome man: short and stocky, he was middle aged, with a broken nose and small, sunken eyes. His crooked jaw was stuck in a permanent, cheeky grin, and he had an unfortunate bald spot that made his ring of hair look like a red halo. His biceps bulged impressively, but his belly was plagued with the hint of a beer gut.

"Please tell me one of ye brought a flask," he panted, "I've been sober nigh on three days now, and it's weighing hard on me soul!"

"Drink is a weak man's tool, Cosnach, used to seek short-lasting refuge from life's ills," Erandur replied piously. Then he grinned, and withdrew a small metal canteen from his belt.

"A pox on you, black elf," the Breton man replied, grasping the flask greedily and taking a hearty swig. He burped when he finished, then spoke to Erik for the first time.

"A new Blade joins the ranks, eh? What's your name, boy?"

"Erik, son of Mralki, Cosnach, sir."

"Ah! You're Mralki's boy, then?" he laughed and clapped Erik on the shoulder. It hurt a lot, considering that Erik wore plate armor and Cosnach did not. "Good man, although I still owe him a debt or two."

At that moment Jakt and Delphine walked over. Erik looked over their shoulder to see the Forsworn dispersing. Gwynlach lingered; he met her eye for a second, but her face was unreadable. Then she turned away.

"Cosnach," Jakt said, his voice thick and tired, "You had better be grateful. Oblivion take the Forsworn, dealing with them gives me shivers."

"Rhydderch is shrewd, if anything," Delphine reproached him, "He'll know not to cross us. Not after your display."

"You were the one so against negotiation," Jakt shot back.

"And blood was spilled to prompt it," Delphine replied, raising an eyebrow, "As to be expected with the Forsworn. We should count ourselves lucky it was relatively little."

Erik looked around to see the others' expressions: they all seemed uncomfortable, not unlike children whose parents argued in the company of strangers. He got the feeling that Delphine and Jakt bickered often.

"What of Marcurio and Benor?" Jakt asked; worry replacing the frustration and weariness on his face. Cosnach's solemn expression was enough to answer him.

"What happened?" he asked quietly.

"It's hard to believe, Jakt," Cosnach replied. "We were ambushed, targeted."

"Ambushed?"

"Aye," the Breton nodded and swallowed, scratching at his neck. "I've quested all over this damned wintery wasteland, Cyrodiil and High Rock as well. I know a hit when I see one. We were tracking this big wyrm south from Dragonbridge - fucker had breath like a dead mammoth, let me tell you - and holed up in Karthwasten after tanglin' with him at Hag Rock. All of a sudden some floozy runs up, tells us the beast had crash landed not three miles west. You know Benor, the stupid brute goes runnin' away before me and Marc can stop an' think."

"Always rushing off for glory," Mjoll murmured, "Benor was courageous to the end." Erik was surprised by her melancholy words.

"They were waitin' for us in the forest," Cosnach continued, "Three strangers, dressed in black, hooded. They carried poisoned crossbows, tiny ones you could hold with one hand."

He produced a small crossbow quarrel from his trousers, no longer than his middle finger. The tiny feathers were dyed a deep red.

"Tagged us with these, waited for us to grow weak," he said, "But you know Benor. Crazy bastard charged in, whirling his greatsword, weren't going down without a fight. But they gave it to him, alright: never seen anything like it. It was like watching a three-headed snake, attackin' separately, but all coordinated-like. Poor Benor didn't stand a chance. Marc, they put him down 'cause he was a magic user - too much trouble for them, I think. They let me live."

"Why?" Erik couldn't decide who looked more terrifying: Jakt, whose anguished snarl could have stopped a charging boar in its tracks, or Delphine, whose frigid, expressionless stare might freeze a thundering waterfall.

"Dunno. Tried to fight - the poison slowed me down such that I couldn't do much, and they just beat me and laughed - then everything just faded away, and I fell. Next thing I knew, I was waking up with some dumb savage peerin' over me."

"You were lucky it was Rhydderch's cell that found you," Delphine said, "If Chief Aedran or Marella the Tooth had instead, they'd have gut you like a fish."

"Damned Forsworn took my armor," grunted the Breton, "And my sword. Did let me have some of their moonshine though, an' it weren't half bad. Your pal Rhydderch seemed almost apologetic about the whole damn thing. My pa always said I had a bit of the Reach in my blood."

"Focus, Cosnach," Delphine ordered, "Do you remember anything else about the attackers? What did they do with the bodies?"

"They were gone when I awoke," Cosnach grunted, shaking his head. He was silent for a moment. "At least Benor's runnin' and drinkin' and laughin' in Sovngarde now. And Marcurio, he's - well, wherever Imperials go."

"Oblivion," Kharjo quipped, "They have their own special plane." Mjoll shot him a scathing look, and he lowered his head sheepishly.

"But the hooded bastards, they left me a little message of sorts," Cosnach continued, "Been tryin' to figure it out for the past week or so."

The Breton withdrew another object from his trousers - a small folded-up piece of parchment. He handed it to Delphine, who opened it, frowned, and passed it to Jakt. Jakt shook his head.

"I've no idea what this means," he said, snarling, "But whoever did this, we'll make them pay."

He passed it to Mjoll, who continued to pass it along. The parchment came to Erik last. He was disappointed by what he saw.

On the paper was a simple handprint, made with black ink. The paper was smeared with blood.

* * *

A/N: This is a sequel to The Ember Covenant, which tells the origin of Jakt the Dragonborn and is a little more character driven. I wanted to hit a reset of sorts: The Flames of Contempt is much larger in scale, and will feature a lot more of the entities in Skyrim, as you can see. As always, feel free to hit me with reviews or criticism!


	2. Shalidor's Folly

_Seeking study, wanting learning,_

 _Recklessly arouse my rage!_

 _My pupil you would be, or more?_ _Presume not of Shalidor,_

 _You feeble, foolish mage!_

 _Quickly dispatched, w_ _orthless weakling,_

 _Though this tome I gladly claim._

 _A diamond in the rough, I find, s_ _hining gem from feeble mind._

 _Now die, and curse my name!_

-Unknown

* * *

Jakt knelt in front of the campfire, sharpening his sword, thinking of the dead.

The slow, methodical ring as he ran the whetstone down Dragonbane's charcoal-colored blade was calming, but it could not drown out their whispered voices, echoing in his ears. He saw their faces when he closed his eyes: their gazes were pained, accusatory. _You failed us._

"That stupid hunk of metal is made of spellforged ebony," Esbern's irritated voice split the calm nighttime air like an axe through crisp, dry firewood. "It'll never lose its edge, boy." He rolled over in his bedroll to look at Jakt, his wrinkled face scrunched up in annoyance. The dying firelight just barely illuminated his movement.

"I know that," Jakt replied.

"So why in Oblivion are you sharpening it?" The old man asked, "I never would have given it to you if I'd known you would use it to make such an awful racket."

They had found the weapon in Sky Haven Temple, lying unceremoniously on the ground, covered in dust and the rotten remnants of the plaque that once held it up. The long hilt, no doubt once heavily embroidered in the flowing Akaviri style, had worn away with time. All that was left was the dense dragonbone grip, cut with criss-crossed grooves: once filled with fine leather strips perhaps, but now quite empty. Esbern was right, of course: despite its dilapidated hilt, the blade was still as sharp and supple as the day it was forged.

"I can't sleep," Jakt murmured.

"You can't sleep? What are you, a toddler?"

Jakt stopped and looked down at the old Nord. "I knew letting you come with me was a mistake. I shouldn't have you let bully Kharjo out of coming in your stead. The Gods forbid I keep an old man up past his bedtime."

Esbern sigh was mocking. "Yes, that is a shame," he said, "But admit it. Being around me does you some good, Jakt."

"How's that?"

"It makes you a bit quicker. Mentally, I mean. Although that isn't saying much, in your case."

"Why do you want to meet the Greybeards? I thought you hated them as much as Delphine does." He ignored Esbern's insult; it was the best way to respond to the old man sometimes, for his tongue was sharp and unpredictable.

"Delphine's still young," Esbern said, "Her fury hasn't burned out just yet. When you get to be my age, you can't afford to hate. It's not good for the heart."

Jakt rolled his eyes. "You didn't answer my question."

"I'm getting there," snapped the old Nord, "I'm old, dammit. I'm entitled to yammer on as I see fit."

He cleared his throat. "Never been to High Hrothgar. I've been all over this damned continent, but never there."

"Why not?"

"The Greybeards, of course! They wouldn't let me in. They hardly let regular folk hang around, climb the steps, see the sights as it is. But a Blade? Not even if Dibella descended from the clouds and offered to perform all her filthy arts on them herself." He chuckled at his own joke.

"So you think with me around, they'll change their minds?"

"Makes sense, doesn't it?"

Jakt shrugged. "They haven't sent for me since I left them. Maybe they're done with me. The Eight," - he paused to correct himself - "The _Nine_ know I wish I could be done with them."

"Now that you have the Horn of Jurgen Breaks-Wind, or what have you, they'll change their tune. And besides, you're Dragonborn. They've sworn an oath to train you in the _Thu'um_. They can't be any more _done_ with you than we can."

"You know an awful lot about them," Jakt said, frowning as he looked down at his knapsack. The very tip of the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller peeked out, cheekily mocking him for the wild goose chase that had finally led to its acquisition.

The old man coughed. "They know an awful lot about Alduin. Probably more than any mortal on Nirn - so I made it my business to know their business."

"And you think they can teach me how to defeat him?" Jakt said skeptically, "They're pacifists. When I studied with them last, I got the feeling that they were a little relieved the world was coming to an end. They didn't seem to give a rat's ass about saving it."

"Alduin's Wall is useless." Esbern retorted, matter-of-factly, "It indicates what the ancient Nords used to defeat him last time - some sort of shout that brought Alduin crashing out of the sky - but it doesn't say exactly what. The Gods take Reman Cyrodiil: he probably thought he was doing us a huge favor when he commissioned the damn thing. But there is still much more to be understood, and the Greybeards will help you in that. You've put off your return for quite long enough: it's time you went back."

"Wait a minute," Jakt said petulantly, coming to a sudden realization, "You convinced Delphine that it was worth it for me to go, didn't you? That's why she was so adamant that I return." Esbern was tricky, he reminded himself: after all, you don't survive thirty years on the run from the Thalmor without learning how to manipulate others.

Esbern looked exasperated. "Well, you kept ignoring me!" He paused, looking sheepish. "I also thought it would be good for both of you if you got out of each other's hair for a bit."

Jakt sighed. The old man was right about that. Delphine and he had been clashing often and badly: they both had their own visions of the Blades as they ought to be. She was having trouble adapting the Blades to their new role. After all, she had spent the past three decades in deep cover; it was to be expected. Accustomed to outthinking men and mer, manipulating enemies and allies alike before striking from the shadows, she had found that dragon-hunting required a much more straightforward effort that went against all her instincts.

Jakt showed natural talent at it (gifted as he was with the Tongue) and he suspected that she felt her leadership threatened - perhaps rightly so. She was Grandmaster, yes, veteran of the Great War and survivor of the 30th of Frostfall, but she was also duty-bound to serve him, a lowly mercenary blessed with power beyond his comprehension. Never mind the fact that he was young and prone to mistakes and had not much played at leadership before. Exposed to the light after so many years, her considerable patience was finally reaching its limit.

And in his case, the Eight - _Nine, dammit -_ only knew how much stress he was under. Fighting dragons had almost become a welcome relief from their efforts to recruit and train new members, of which Delphine had taken point. Their training sessions together did not help to relieve tension in the least. The Breton woman was the best swordsman he'd ever fought, and he sparred with her almost every day. Even though repeatedly losing to her was forging him into a superior warrior, it came at the cost of constant humiliation, for Delphine never went easy on him (as she would occasionally on the others, he suspected). The welts she left on his body were a continuous presence, and he was beginning to doubt that they would ever heal.

Then again, he could best Mjoll three out of five times in the ring now, and she had been second-best at Sky Haven not three months prior.

"I wonder what she was like as a Blade," he mused out loud, "I mean, before the war."

"Oh, she was soft," Esbern replied, his voice quiet. "We all were."

There was a quiet moment. Jakt gave up the empty gesture of trying to sharpen his magically forged blade and instead got up, meaning to run through his practice drills.

"Why can't you sleep?" Esbern asked, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes, poking at the fire with a stick, "Was it that dragon soul you ate for lunch?"

"No," Jakt said, frowning, "That's gotten… more bearable. Although its last moments were not very pleasant - Mjoll, Kharjo and Erandur tore it to pieces, and that Erik boy can shoot to save his life, it seems."

"Yes - our newest blade," Esbern said, smirking, "Stupid but courageous, just like you were. Except maybe a little bigger and a little more stupid. He'll make a fine warrior someday, and better a Blade than a Stormcloak."

Jakt turned to look at him. "Why?" he asked.

Esbern shrugged. "Better to die fighting a firebreathing monster in the service to the greater good than hacked down by your kinsman, that's all."

"He could join the Legion instead, if he wanted," Jakt muttered offhand, smirking as he moved through the intricate sword dance that Delphine had him practice every day. A younger Jakt would have found the slow, deliberate display awfully boring, but he had come to realize that the way that Delphine fought wasn't supposed to look flashy: it was supposed to kill people, quickly and efficiently.

Esbern laughed. "Hah! Plenty of Nords do that, you know. I imagine you'd give up on them all if you could." He paused, as if hesitant to continue.

"Tell me something, Jakt: why do you worship Ulfric so? You haven't even lived here for very long."

Jakt almost slipped. It frustrated him when his companions questioned Ulfric, mostly because some cynical part of him could sense logic in their criticisms. He fought down a surge of anger, knowing that the old Nord was trying to bait him. He remembered some of Delphine's favorite words: _a Blade's greatest assets are self-control and patience._ Though he often had trouble living by that creed, he could admit there was wisdom in it.

"What do you think of him?"

Esbern was caught off guard. "Seeking my opinion, are you? That's new." He cleared his throat. "Well, I've never met him. Have you?"

"Once," Jakt said, after executing a series of lightning-fast cuts, "Only briefly. But his deeds speak for themselves."

"Oh, he's a natural leader," Esbern mused, "And a great warrior, no doubt about that. But Skyrim breeds warriors like corpses breed flies, and plenty of charismatic leaders inevitably fail because they lack cunning. One thing that people forget about Ulfric is that he's a skilled politician. He conceals it very well."

"What do you mean?"

"For someone who claims to hate the Empire and the Thalmor, he sure knows how to manipulate as they do."

Jakt worked his way through a complicated series of parry-ripostes designed to unbalance and overextend an opponent with minimal exertion and movement. The positions required minute adjustments to traditional forms, utilizing small muscles in his wrists and hands that were typically quiescent. When his arms began to ache he stopped for a breather, turning to see the old man poking at the fire with a frown on his wrinkled face.

"Go on," he prompted, albeit reluctantly and with a trace of irritation.

"Well," Esbern reasoned, "He knows that his support is based on three things: his popularity amongst the proudest and most outspoken of our kinsman; the Thalmor ban on Talos worship; and general anti-Imperial sentiment. So, he does everything to maintain and control these factors and thereby keep himself in power. For the last decade or two he's done a bang up job of sowing seeds of discord between the Thalmor and Skyrim's Imperial sympathizers, and playing on the distrust that the other Jarls hold for them - not to mention each other! - perfectly.

"When the time came, he outfoxed High King Torygg perfectly, setting him up with a fight the lad couldn't hope to win. Somehow he made the poor bastard's thrashing seem like an act of popular will, a stand against Imperial oppression instead of a shameful rout. He made Elisif, his chief opponent for the throne, look like a weak floozy in front of her peers, first by killing her husband with ease, second by orchestrating a kingsmoot to challenge her."

"Even if all that is true," Jakt replied, feeling his cheeks redden as he repressed his burning desire to challenge Esbern's words ad hominem, "He's doing it in the name of a free Skyrim. He's playing their game by their rules, and he's winning."

"Maybe," Esbern nodded slowly, "But I'm only trying to get you to _think_ , boy. When the time comes, we're going to need help. Make no mistake, the end of the world is coming, and it's coming too fast for the Blades to handle. Will you turn to Ulfric for aid when the time comes? Will he give it?"

Jakt did not reply. He believed the answer was yes, but doubt nagged at his brain. A few months ago, it had been one solitary gnat buzzing about, easy to ignore. Now it was like a pack of hornets - incessant, territorial, dangerous.

A moment passed. He sheathed Dragonbane, wrapped the bandoleer around its plain leather scabbard, then placed it gingerly next to his bedroll before he sat down heavily next to the fire. Then Esbern evidently remembered what they had been talking about earlier.

"That isn't why you couldn't sleep though, is it?."

"No," Jakt began irritably, "But it sure as Oblivion isn't going to make it any easier."

Esbern didn't reply. Jakt cleared his throat and continued.

"I was thinking about the dead." He paused. "They won't leave me alone."

The old man nodded slowly. "Aye, they'll do that."

Jakt's reaction must have come across as puzzled or even hostile, for Esbern recoiled visibly.

"What, you think I don't know what it feels like to lose comrades? To blame oneself for the death of those innocent?"

"There are so many, now," Jakt said, his tone turning dour. He held up his hand and began to count on his fingers. "Lydia. Malborn and Brelas. Jon Battle-Born, Uthgerd the Unbroken. And now Marcurio and Benor. And Lys-"

The name caught in his throat. Esbern surprised him by continuing the list.

"Jessup Windshear. Acilius Bolar the Oathkeeper. Maggie Sharp-Tongue, Lakug ra-Garnush. Carimund ap Delphyr." His voice was tired and dull, and his age - so usually obscured by his energetic nature - suddenly became apparent. "They visit me too. Been a while, but recently they've been dropping in quite a bit."

The old Nord sighed. "They're dead and gone, boy. Celebrate their lives and mourn their passage, but don't let them compound your guilt with their hauntings. It cheapens their sacrifices."

"Easier said then done."

"Oh, it took me a long time to learn how to do that," Esbern chuckled sadly, "But you need to push on for their sakes, and your own. And mine, for that matter. Now stop feeling sorry for yourself and get some sleep."

He clambered back into his bedroll, uttering a final sentence before turning over.

"For the record, we never saw it happen. She could be alive, for all you know."

Jakt thought of the last time he'd seen her: shuffling off into the darkness, wearing his own face as an illusion to lead the Thalmor Justiciars off his trail. Somehow she'd managed to make even his own visage look haughty and superior.

"I hope you're right."

* * *

The Khajiit wrapped his traveling cloak tighter about him, shivering in the frigid mountain wind despite his warm fur pelt. He poked at the pitiful campfire, which flickered desperately, buffeted by the incessant wind.

"You don't look comfortable, Trystane," he said, his silky-smooth voice utterly at odds with the whistling din all around them, "Why not? We are, after all, in your element."

The young Breton woman fixed him with a glare as she mimicked his feeble attempts to ward off the cold. Winter was nigh in Skyrim, and the Jerall range was nearly unbearable during the summer months as it was. Now, as they ascended, the weather was near to inhospitable.

"Don't call her that, J'zargo," commented the Dunmer girl at her side, "You know she hates her surname, you _s'srit_."

"Ever the brown-nose, Brelyna," the Khajiit muttered.

Lysana Trystane was a cold woman, or so she had been told. Her fellow apprentices at the College of Winterhold had whispered it behind her back, too wary of her icy grey eyes and frosty, biting tongue to openly mock her. It did not help that her grasp of magic was geared overwhelmingly towards the offensive, a trait that her instructors attributed to repressed aggression and trauma. While she disdained the detached and condescending psychobabble of her superiors, as she buried her desire to send a bolt of lightning scurrying up J'zargo's tail she acknowledged that they might have a point.

Lysana was nearing her twenty-first year. Short and slender, even by Breton standards, she had discovered her magical aptitude at the perfect age, right as her slightness of stature began to reveal itself. Men had sought to bed her ever since she had turned fourteen, a fact she often attributed to her red-gold hair and the freckles that decorated her pale skin. They were traits common to Bretons of High Rock, but the Nords of Skyrim seemed to find them attractive, even exotic. Or perhaps it was her frosty disposition: in her experience, the male sex often sought that which seemed unobtainable. Not that Lysana spent much time letting herself be chased: when she had needs, she saw to them, and when she didn't (which was more often the case) she saw to her work.

Lysana had spent some time as a hedge wizard (the old Mage Guild classification for a magic user without a formal education), apprenticing herself to any half-baked fool with borderline magical ability, before a Bosmer mage by the name of Enthir had "discovered" her. She'd been living in Markarth, just sixteen years at the time, and had managed to impressed the elf with a particularly acute fireball spell. Beginning as a novice in the School of Destruction, she'd worked her way up to apprentice acolyte in just three years. Her rise had seemed meteoric, until a mysterious scandal (unrelated to herself, she was relatively certain) had seen to Enthir's dismissal. Unsavory rumors abounded about her relationship with the Bosmer mage, head scholar of Destruction magic at the College, and despite their inability to verify what amounted to mere slander, Enthir's detractors had sought to throw out the champagne with the cork, so to speak. Instead of dismissing her outright, however, the Circle of Mages had assigned her to field duties, a post that all apprentices dreaded.

And then she had met the Dragonborn.

"What does Tolfdir hope to accomplish by sending us here, anyways?" the Dunmer asked anxiously, ignoring J'zargo's put-down and interrupting Lysana's train of thought. Brelyna Maryon of House Telvanni was a few years older than she, a gifted young mystic and conjurer who had come from far-away Morrowind to study at the College of Winterhold. She was slim and petite, like most dark elf women, with high cheekbones, a gaunt face and ruby-red eyes. Her hair, hidden behind a padded shroud, was blacker than midnight on a cloudy evening. She was the closest Lysana had to a friend at the College, though both knew and acknowledged that it was a friendship of convenience: their grueling work ethics were mutually compatible, and their respective fields of study, while not aligned, complimented one another well. It was often said that mages did not make friends, but forged alliances, and their relationship did little to disprove that stereotype.

"His concerns are twofold," Lysana began in a brisk fashion, "One: he hopes that by sending us in the stead of more experienced mages, we might attract less attention."

She paused before disclosing her suspicions. "Two: he hopes to keep us away from the Thalmor representative at the College."

J'zargo shook his head, hissing his amusement. "Your paranoia would put a skooma addict to shame."

"Are you ever going to tell us what happened?" Brelyna asked as she wiped the frost off her eyelashes, "You know, with the Dragonborn?"

Lysana felt a stab of what she might classify as emotional pain, but it was easy to repress.

"Who told you I traveled with the Dragonborn?"

"We're not idiots," J'zargo replied sardonically, "We know the Circle sent you to investigate the magical anomalies caused by the dragons' return. We've heard the stories and rumors of a cabal of dragon-slayers in Whiterun, the Rift, and now the Reach as well. We know you returned _months_ after you were expected - and considerably worse for wear, at that."

J'zargo was a bit of an oddball - brilliant in his own fashion, but possessing the strangest combination of ambition and heedlessness. He cut corners and was quite sloppy in his studies, but his work was undeniably complex, a potent mixture of destruction and illusion that had half his instructors scratching their heads with wonder as the other half were cursing his carelessness. Lysana suspected it was due in part to his Khajiit heritage: as the cat-men rarely showed an interest in the pursuit of magic, the rare Khajiit mage seemed to view the magical arts through a completely different lens than what was considered typical. Regardless, his ego was large even by the College's standards, and he rubbed Lysana the wrong way more often than not.

She waved his remark aside. "The Circle has prohibited me from speaking of my travels."

J'zargo rolled his eyes. Lysana rolled forward, changing the subject.

"As I was about to say, Tolfdir thinks Ancano is trying to worm his way into the College in order to exert his influence over those predisposed towards the Thalmor's particular magical habits. As the college's most junior members, aside from the fresh batch of novices, he thinks we are prime candidates for... reconditioning."

J'zargo flicked an ear. "Tolfdir's politics interfere with his judgement," he said, "Of course he doesn't like the Dominion. The old man's a Talos worshipper, after all. I've seen the shrine in his room."

"No you haven't," Brelyna deadpanned, "Stop spinning horseshit, J'zargo." She turned back to Lysana, her forehead creased. "He does have a point though," she continued, "The College has pledged neutrality, and that's always been so. Say what you will about the Thalmor, their grasp on magic exceeds even the Circle's in some capacities. Especially in your schools of study, Lysana."

Lysana frowned, but did not reply. How could she communicate to them the horror she'd lived? She remembered her return to the College, not two months prior: limping into the courtyard, buffeted by the wind, half-frozen and far from triumphant. An emaciated shell of her former self, she'd staggered into the great hall to find a tall figure in sinister hooded robes - black trimmed with gold, a triggering sight - among the small crowd that was there to welcome her. The sight had nearly driven her to collapse with panic: just one look at that angular face, with its golden skin, angular forehead, and platinum-blonde hair, was enough to recall boundless agony and despair.

The following weeks passed like molasses down a gentle slope. Sickly and miserable, the Circle confined Lysana to her chambers to recuperate, but her sleep was fitful and plagued by nightmares. Eventually the Circle wrangled a report out of her, albeit one that she edited heavily due to Ancano's presence. They ultimately decided not to take any action regarding the Dragon crisis, deciding to sit back and observe until events progressed to a more critical stage. Lysana was not really surprised: of course the College would act conservatively. They could afford to do so, after all: they were secure in their corner of the world, untouched by the flames of war and contempt that burned throughout the land. Only to Tolfdir, her kindly, stalwart protector, did she reveal the true scope of her journey. He was the sole member of the Circle interested in the finer details: the Greybeards and the Blades, the intrigue at the Thalmor Embassy, her dealings with the Thieves Guild, and her capture at the hands of the Justiciars...

And Jakt, the Dragonborn: what was he like? A hero for the ages, strong and brave and true? A foolish boy, wrapped up in something far larger than he could possibly fathom? She still did not have an answer. Deciding she had dwelt upon his memory long enough, she pushed him to the back of her mind once more. _I've made my sacrifice for him - and for the greater good - at the cost of my work, my health, and very nearly my life. He deserves no more from me._

"In any case," Brelyna said after a long silence, "If what you say is true, and Tolfdir is afraid the Thalmor are on to his research, I can't help but feel we're under-qualified to be the ones retrieving the damn thing."

"If it even exists in the first place," J'zargo muttered, rubbing his shoulders with his hands as he spoke.

Lysana had her doubts as well. Of all the warlocks and sorceresses at the College, Tolfdir was by far the least mage-like. While the other senior members would occasionally deign to throw scraps of their attention to the acolytes, subtly encouraging them to scramble and bicker amongst one another for their meagre gifts, Tolfdir welcomed them with open arms. As such, he was saddled with orienting newcomers to the College, a duty that many of his peers considered mundane. Tolfdir seemed to enjoy it. A kindly, forgetful old man, his nature had earned him the moniker "Tolfdir the Absent-Minded," but Lysana got the sense that Tolfdir acted in such a manner purposefully.

It was wise not to question Tolfdir's kindness: given that it was staffed by egotistical zealots, the life of a student at the College was inconsistent at best and terribly chaotic at worst, and it was nice to have an anchor to secure your before the hurricane swept you away.

When Tolfdir had come to them with this mission, however, his normally grandfatherly voice had a frantic edge. Lysana knew a little about his field - the school of Alteration having many practical applications when combined with Destruction - and therefore about his own research, which he appeared to neglect in favor of instruction. So it was a surprise when he summoned the three of them and revealed that his research of late had focused not on the vagaries of Alteration magic, but rather the writings of the Archmage Shalidor, an extremely powerful sorcerer who dated back to the First Era and was one of the founders of the College of Winterhold.

Tolfdir, it seemed, had been spending as much time spying on Ancano as Ancano had been spying on the rest of them, and had subsequently determined that the Thalmor emissary seemed unusually interested in the collected writings of Shalidor that the College had in its archive. The College kept immaculate records, of course, and Shalidor's Insights were often studied and relatively well-understood. Regardless, Tolfdir - along with the College's archivist, a particularly temperamental Orc named Urag gro-Shub - began funding mercenaries to investigate Nordic ruins and other places of power associated with the ancient Arch-Mage. While studying the products of these expeditions, they had stumbled upon something that seemed to disturb Tolfdir a great deal.

"The description he provided us seems accurate enough," reasoned Brelyna, flipping open her leather-bound journal to a hastily-scribbled note, "'A simple oaken staff, five cubits in length. At one end, a green-blue orb surrounded by three curved spines; at the other, a small jewel.' Hmm. Seems pretty innocuous, as mage staves go."

"What's a cubit?" Jzargo asked, puzzled.

"You think it belonged to Shalidor?" Lysana said, ignoring him.

"A unit of measurement," Brelyna, ever patient, explained before turning back to Lysana. "If it didn't, at least he had possession of it. I've read of his maze - one of Skyrim's most enduring mysteries, a curios poorly understood even now."

"Tolfdir must be desperate to be sending three apprentice mages to fetch the stave."

"Speak for yourself," J'zargo snickered, " _We're_ journeyman acolytes now."

The damned Khajiit loved reminding her that during her long absence, he and Brelyna had successfully undergone their journeyman trials. Lysana had been unpleasantly surprised to find herself bunking with fresh faces in the apprentice quarters, the class of novices that were below her when she left for the field having (mostly) moved up to join her rank. Once again the hierarchical system of the College - a useless relic introduced to give some semblance of order - showed its lack of worth. The hardships she had endured on the road were monumental compared to the paltry examinations that determined the path to Journeyman status. Then again, she hadn't had the time to really rejoin the frantic everyday life at the College before Tolfdir had summoned them.

Lysana rose suddenly. There was a momentary break in the cloud bank that wafted about them, revealing their destination, albeit some miles off. Nestled between two smaller peaks at the western edge of the Jerall range, she could make out what must be a gigantic set of stairs, carved out of stone and decorated with a series of partially-collapsed arches. She turned around to catch a glimpse of Whiterun valley, its vast swathe of rolling plains dotted with farmsteads and intersected by streams. Off in the distance she could barely make out the solitary tower of Dragonsreach. It looked far more inviting, stubby and wide as it was.

"Bromjunaar," breathed Brelyna, her voice quiet with awe.

"It's Labyrinthian, now," Lysana replied, "No one calls it that anymore. Shalidor had something to do with that, I believe."

"According to Tolfdir's notes," the Dunmer said, skimming through her notebook, "Shalidor used to bring his understudies here to test them." She frowned, looking worried. "He'd force them to enter the maze and reward them if they, erhm, survived." She paused for a second, then continued. "One of them reported coming across a burial site within the maze that contained a giant stone coffin, to which was affixed the stave."

"The site itself is far older than Shalidor, this one believes," J'zargo interjected, stroking the small tuft of fur that sprouted from his chin.

"You're right," Brelyna continued, "Scholars think Bromjunaar was built in the Merethic Era, when the dragons ruled Tamriel."

Lysana turned toward the sun, hanging low in the west, peeking through the low-hanging clouds that encircled the mountain.

"We're not going to get there tonight," she reasoned as she lifted another log and placed it on their pitiful campfire, "So we'd best try and get some sleep. Who knows what we'll find in there."

* * *

They were two days out from Whiterun when it began to rain.

"If we'd just stuck to the Imperial Highway, this wouldn't be a problem," Esbern muttered irritably as he helped Jakt out of yet another muddy patch. The dirt road they'd been using had become less and less passable as the day wore on.

"Too dangerous," Jakt replied, "This is Imperial-controlled territory." The muddy water in his boot was cold and unpleasant, so he walked into the wood until he found a suitable rock to rest on and pulled it off. His soaked wool traveling cloak shed droplets of water in sheets as he sat. _My armor will start to rust if the deluge continues,_ he thought to himself with consternation. Esbern followed him: the old man's cloak was no less soaked than his, but he had instead chosen to don a heavy fur robe that stretched to his knees. It made Jakt jealous.

"Last time I checked," The old man said, ignoring Jakt's annoyed glare, "Whiterun was neutral. Both sides rely on its crop during the winter months, after all."

"Don't forget that Jarl Balgruuf was at the Thalmor Embassy party that we infiltrated," the younger Nord replied, "Why else would he be there if he wasn't courting the Empire?"

"Maintaining the status quo, perhaps? To my knowledge, he hasn't contributed anything but grain to the Empire's war efforts. Not to mention he didn't give you over to the Thalmor when he recognized you there. I imagine turning over the Dragonborn would have brought him much favor from the Dominion, let alone a Dragonborn who's both a spy for the Blades and - _worse_ \- a gate-crasher."

Jakt frowned and nodded slowly. "He seemed to know who Delphine was too." Delphine wouldn't reveal herself unless she had just cause to do so - she was too cautious. She had refused to comment about the strange connection the last time he'd brought it up, insisting he concentrate on more pressing, dragon-related matters. That had been months ago.

"It's better if we don't get involved," Jakt finished after a moment.

"Balgruuf might be able to help us," Esbern countered, "He did make you a Thane, after all. Not that you've been particularly active in his court."

Jakt laughed. He'd forgotten all about that: his first dragon slaying, so long ago, Balgruuf's proclamation, and the celebration that followed it. Then he remembered Lydia and his mirth turned morose.

"We can talk about it further when we're closer to Whiterun," he said curtly. Esbern shrugged. When Jakt started back towards the road he placed a hand out to stop him.

"Wait," the old man reasoned, "Why don't we forgo the road? It'll just be a slog. Whiterun's due northeast from here anyways, we'll be fine."

"Sure."

"The Blades ought to really invest in some damned horses," the old man muttered as they rose and trudged along.

"Where in Oblivion would we stable them?"

"Why, at the summit of the Karthspire, of course!"

The forest floor proved more forgiving than the muddy road, and they made good time. The trees began to thin as they descended from the steppes of the Reach towards Whiterun valley. The rain let up a little as they traveled, but Jakt was very thankful that he'd invested in the thick fur that padded the inside of his fine scale jerkin, for the dampness was quite chilly.

Afternoon sunlight streamed through the increasingly large gaps in the tree cover when all of a sudden the sounds of a scuffle reached Jakt's ear. He heard a woman or a child scream, and the telltale ring of steel on steel.

"You hear that?" he asked Esbern, coming to a halt and putting his hand out.

"Sounds like a fight," the old man replied, perking up.

The clash of metal abruptly stopped; it was followed by a round of shouting and cursing and another scream.

"A one-sided fight," Esbern corrected himself. He paused, looked sideways at the young Nord. There was a flash of guilt in his eyes as he said, "We ought not to get involved."

"Highwaymen, I'd bet," Jakt growled, "Preying on the innocent."

Esbern sighed. "Jakt, in times such as these, is anyone really innocent?"

Jakt ignored him and started forward, rushing towards the sounds of the commotion. He heard Esbern puffing along behind him; it did not take them long to reach the disturbance.

They came to a clearing intersected by a lightly cobbled road. A small overturned cart rested at one side of the the scene; the horse that had drawn it lay punctured by several arrows in a pool of its own blood. Five or six men, dressed in a motley assortment of ragged leather and steel, stood in a semicircle around two smaller human figures; two more ruffled through the cart. Jakt looked to see a headless corpse lying near the horse, dressed in an unassuming leather coat and half-clutching a steel blade. The corpse's bare arms were covered with fur and a limp tail snaked its way out from underneath the body; a Khajiit, clearly.

"What to do with them, Stygge?" asked one of the men, a greasy-looking Imperial with a blunted mace. He was clearly referring to the two half-obscured forms in the middle of the circle, who appeared sitting or kneeling. Jakt felt his stomach clench in apprehension as he took a few steps forward to try and identify the crouched figures. One was a woman, the other a child, both with terrified looks on their faces.

"We can't just let 'em go," another piped up, an unkempt Nord woman dressed in boiled leather and slightly rusted mail, "They'll report us to the Whiterun guard, or the Companions. It'll dismantle our entire operation."

From the way they deferred to him, Jakt could guess that this Stygge was the leader of this rag-tag group. His back faced towards Jakt, but he looked to be a Nord: his shoulders high and wide, he wore a crude iron helmet that had two curled goat horns protruding from either side. He was clad in mail of a faded blue shade, and secured to his back was an ugly, straight-bladed greatsword forged of some bronze-colored alloy.

"Whiterun guard're busy enough as it is keeping the peace between Ulfric's boys and the Imps," Stygge spoke, his voice raspy like gravel, "The Companions, though, that's a different matter."

"Oi!" another of their little gang spoke up, a short, black-haired imperial who gestured at Jakt with her unsheathed steel sword. "We got newcomers!"

Stygge whirled around, hand going to his own sword in a threatening manner. Jakt mimicked his movements, placing his right hand at Dragonbane's hilt, but did not draw the weapon. His other hand went to the clasp at his traveling cloak. He glanced to the right to see Esbern, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, spinning his dirk in one hand with surprising dexterity.

"Kyne's tits, who are you, then?" growled Stygge. He had a big, broad face and a long, pleated beard; the horned helmet gave him an almost devilish appearance. His mouth gaped open to reveal a surprisingly clean set of teeth.

"What in Oblivion's going on here?" Jakt asked, ignoring the question.

"Help us!" the crouching woman, still partially obscured, screamed, "They murdered me 'usband and they mean to do the same to me!" At her side the child began to blubber and cry.

"Fool would have been spared had he paid the toll," Stygge grunted, "Rushed at us like a madman when we made to search his cart." His accent was thick: Jakt guessed he was from far up north, Dawnstar maybe.

"Highwaymen," Esbern muttered, "Not very smart ones, looks like."

"Let them go," Jakt said, gesturing to the woman and child.

"But, what about me things-"

"Quiet, bitch!" the man with the mace yelled, sending a poorly-aimed kick at the woman.

"They look dangerous, Stygge," the Nord woman said quietly, her eyes narrowing, "And they've seen our faces. Best we stick 'em real quick and dump their bodies down a deep hole, along with these two."

Another one voiced his agreement, then another, but they stayed put, waiting for Stygge's ultimate judgement. Jakt locked eyes with Stygge, but the big Nord stood there for a second, uncertainty written plain on his face. Jakt's heart pounded as he made up his own mind - evidently a little quicker than Stygge made up his.

 _Got to separate them somehow..._

With one smooth movement Jakt unhooked his cloak and threw it at the big Nord. The heavy fabric wrapped its way around the man's head and torso, causing him to fumble about; Jakt darted forward and lashed out with his boot, hitting the big man in the ankle and sending him sprawling.

There was a split second of silence before the remaining five of them sprang into action, giving Jakt just enough time to draw Dragonbane from its sheath on his back. Three of his attackers clustered towards him, leading with assorted iron and steel. Jakt opened his mouth and shouted with the _Thu'um_ : a visible shockwave exploded outwards, followed by a cone of unstoppable force, sending his three would-be assailants careening backwards.

The man with the mace, too far to the side to be caught in Jakt's shout, recoiled, his jaw gaping in dismay. His hesitation cost him his life: he failed to raise his weapon in time to counter Dragonbane's razor-sharp blade as it sliced through the thin leather that protected his thorax. Jakt sidestepped the spurt of blood from the man's chest as he went down.

His last assailant left standing, the dark-haired imperial, clanked her sword against a gauntlet and darted towards him. She wore the telltale studded leather of a legionnaire scout, in poor condition and splattered with mud. Her short blade darted in towards his groin, but her turned it outside with a graceful, split-second parry. Silently congratulating himself for reinforcing his kneepads with steel, he lashed out with his right knee, striking her hard in the abdomen. She doubled over in agony - her light leather armor poorly suited to disperse blunt-force trauma - and he darted past her, whirling Dragonbane around to stab her through the back, severing her spinal column right at the chest. He grimaced at her agonizing shriek as he withdrew the sword, sending blood spattering through the air in a violent, beautiful arc.

An arrow whizzed by his head, putting the poor woman's cry out of his mind, and he turned to see the two men who had been looting the cart - both armed with bows, one reloading. He threw himself into a desperate tumbling roll as the other loosed his notched arrow: he felt its wind as it streaked by, missing Jakt by an arm's length. He came up to see two of the three downed by his shout rushing towards him once more.

"Esbern!" he shouted, "Archers!"

"Got 'em!" came the old man's reply; Jakt caught a glimpse of Esbern, cackling demonically, his hands pulsating with red-orange arcane energy. Turning away, he heard a _whoosh,_ followed by a concussive blast, then screams and the smell of smoke.

At that moment Jakt had more pressing concerns, for the two highwaymen were upon him. One was a Redguard wielding a curved scimitar, the other a skinny Nord with an axe. The Nord rushed forward first, Talos' name on his lips, swinging his axe with abandon. He died quickly: Jakt danced around his clumsy rush and sliced his back open with a single upward slash, then turned desperately to avoid the Redguard's curved blade as it came darting forward.

The Redguard was dressed in fettered clothes that looked like they belonged in a desert. His strange headdress was wrapped around his head and extended to drape about his neck; his trousers ballooned outward at the knees and the toes of his boots were turned up into a point. He was relatively unarmored, a fact which Jakt found worrisome: he'd heard the tales of Hammerfell's desert warriors, of their prowess with their distinctive curved blades and their disdain for clumsy plate armor. He jumped backward and raised Dragonbane in salute; the Redguard did in kind with his scimitar. Then they clashed.

The Redguard was quick and aggressive. He snarled something in his own melodic language as he darted forward, feinting towards Jakt's left. Jakt, watching the man's eyes instead of his sword, recognized the ruse for what it was, catching the Redguard's blade as he reversed the slash above his head to his right side and sending it sliding it high and wide. He countered by lunging forward with his steel-plated shoulder pauldron, hoping to disorient his opponent with sheer brutality, but the man was too fast, twisting aside and regaining his guard.

Jakt realized with a sinking feeling that he was up against a skilled opponent. He also knew he did not have the luxury of time to defeat him. He risked a glance to see Esbern going toe-to-toe with the remaining two bandits - the Nord woman and Stygge, hence recovered - the old man backtracking furiously, a magical ward protruding from one hand. He turned his attention back to his Redguard opponent, blocked a lazy swipe with a snap of his wrist, and launched a lightning-fast attack routine designed to overwhelm his opponent with speed and force. Dragonbane became a deadly blur as he whirled the blade at a nearly imperceptible speed, raining blow upon blow down upon the man. The Redguard blocked every strike with expert precision; the repeated shock of impact sent a tingling sensation through Jakt's fingers that began to disseminate up his arms. He knew he was tiring himself out, but he had to end the skirmish quickly so he might rush to Esbern's aid.

He used Dragonbane's superior length to keep the man on the defensive, working him around towards the overturned cart. The ground nearby was slippery and muddy; Jakt had hoped the terrain would prove too treacherous for him, but the man's balance and footwork were impeccable. He kept his feet wide apart - one always planted, his legs slightly bent and never crossed. Frustrated and sweating despite the chilly rain, his muscles beginning to ache, Jakt gave a yell and overextended himself with a wide, arcing slash. He recognized his mistake immediately but it was too late to stop his momentum.

The Redguard sidestepped the swipe and surged forward, smacking Jakt's weapon out of his grip with a blow of his own. Dragonbane clattered down into the muck. With a shout of triumph, the man whirled about in an impressive yet superfluous display, blade leading, obviously meaning to decapitate Jakt. Instead he gave the young Nord just enough time to duck backwards. Looking frantically about for Dragonbane, Jakt spotted the weapon half-buried in mud just as his assailant slashed forward once more, forcing him to pirouette awkwardly away from his diagonal slash. The Redguard's face was taut as he twirled his scimitar in his hand, stalking forward in a methodical fashion.

But Jakt had one card left to play: when the man lunged forward, raising his blade to land the killing blow, the young Nord opened his mouth and spat a cone of flame into the man's face at point-blank range.

The Redguard screamed - a bloodcurdling sound - and dropped his sword to claw at his burning torso, his face and hands immediately covered with blisters. Spots dancing in his eyes - for shouting twice in short succession often left him groggy and exhausted - Jakt staggered around him, launched Dragonbane into the air with a swift kick of his foot (an unnecessary, if not ridiculous flourish he'd nevertheless perfected with hours of practice) and caught the hilt. Not wishing to let a worthy opponent suffer through his last moments, he turned about and swept the man's head from his shoulder with a swift stroke, gliding right between the man's neck vertebrae with precision.

Jakt was always amazed at how easily Dragonbane slipped through flesh and bone, not to mention leather and plate. He made a halfhearted attempt to avoid the spurt of blood that followed the decapitation, turning away from the body as it fell. Ignoring the weariness in his muscles, the ache in his chest from the shout, and the smell of scalded flesh in the air, he started back towards Esbern, his heart jolting at the thought that he might have taken too long.

To his surprise, the old man needed no assistance. He stood, still as a statue, watching one of the bandits doubled over a prone form nearby. Esbern's brow was furrowed, his shoulders hunched; blood dripped from his dirk, but otherwise he looked unharmed.

"Wylla," groaned the man as he pawed one-handed at the corpse. It was Stygge, his horned helmet askew on his head to reveal one grey eye, misted with tears. His other hand clutched at his stomach. It was covered in blood.

The woman was a ghastly sight: her eyes wide open, the glistening pink slit that was her mouth mirroring the dark-red line on her throat that pulsed and beaded with blood. A hideous scorch mark decorated her abdomen. Jakt looked back up at Esbern, his mouth agape. The old man's expression was expressionless as he looked on. Then he noticed Jakt staring, and gave a crooked smile that was devoid of mirth.

"Why do you look so surprised, boy? I was a Blade, after all." Esbern's words came out more hollow than cocksure.

"Wylla," Stygge said again, his breath wheezing and ragged. Jakt lowered his blade from its ready position: he knew what it looked like when the fight drained out of somebody. He wiped Dragonbane on the wet grass to clear it of its crimson stains.

"You've killed her," the man gasped, "My wife…"

Jakt's stomach churned, and he instinctively looked down at his feet. Then he reminded himself what Stygge and Wylla were: common bandits.

"She brought it on herself," came Esbern's cold reply, "When she decided to prey on the needy."

Jakt looked up into the old man's face. All traces of warmth had fled his visage, leaving only an ancient, stony shell behind. The wounded man looked up at him. He coughed, and nodded.

"S'pose you're right," he mumbled, his head drooping, "'Tweren't supposed to be this way. When we fled the army-" he grunted in pain as he shifted to stand. Jakt felt stirrings of guilt and doubt tug at his chest as he watched Stygge struggle to get up. His adrenaline was beginning to wear off, and the miasma that always followed acts of violence was setting in.

But he did not move to help the man. Neither did Esbern.

"Deserters, then?" asked Esbern nonchalantly.

"Aye," Stygge replied after a moment, "Of Ulfric's war."

Jakt cast an eye about the corpses. Now that he had time to reflect he found the band an odd mix of men and women of differing allegiances.

"There are Imperials here too. Are they also deserters?" he asked the big Nord.

Stygge wheezed in what might have been a chuckle. "Aye. I'd have trouble believing it meself were I you, but hunger makes for strange bedfellows."

"Why did you desert?" Jakt asked, trying and failing not to sound accusatory.

The man eyed him through the muck and tears and blood that clung to his face. Then he sighed.

"Tired of fighting another man's war while scaly beasts set fire to my land," he replied, "Ulfric and the Empire were doin' a bang up job of guttin' Skyrim before there were any sign of Dragons to do it quicker."

"So you thought to turn to banditry?" came Esbern's sharp reply

Stygge turned to face him, nostrils heaving.

"Talos damn you, spare me the trial!" he spoke, "I make no excuses, I did what I did to stay alive. If you're to kill me, be done with it! But I'd rather die on my feet like a true-"

All of a sudden the tip of a blade erupted from between his sternum. He looked down in surprise and agony, then collapsed sideways, scratching at his chest with his hands, blood spattering from his mouth with his every cough. Standing behind him was the woman from the cart, clutching a captured blade, her face impassive. She watched the big Nord flop about for a moment before she noticed Jakt and Esbern staring at her.

"What?" she asked, shrugging, "I gave him what he wanted."

The combination of her short frame, large pupils, almond-colored skin and distinctive pointed ears gave away her Wood Elf heritage. She dressed unassumingly in a simple brown dress, but she looked capable and strong. Her child came padding up behind her, and, to Jakt's confusion, she did not resemble her mother in the slightest. She looked to be eight or nine, with long, golden-brown hair. Her round face was paler than his, and a pair of deep blue eyes, misted with tears, stared up at him. Jakt had a feeling that her hair hid a pair of rounded ears, but he said nothing. _A war orphan, most like._

"I suppose I should be thanking you," the Bosmer said, sniffing as if in annoyance. "I'll let you have first pick of the lootings, then."

Jakt frowned and looked about at the carnage. He had no desire to do anything of the sort. Esbern echoed this sentiment out loud.

"It was no trouble," the old man murmured, "And we'd prefer to let the dead lay."

Jakt felt a rush of gratitude for the old man.

"Suit yourself," the woman said, shrugging. She walked over to a nearby corpse and began to ruffle through its pockets. The little girl walked up to Jakt and looked up at him, the fear in her eyes slowly giving way to curiosity. He was surprised that his blood-splattered armor did not seem to frighten him; he drew the unfortunate conclusion that it was a sight she'd seen before.

His heart ached for her.

"Are you a knight?" she asked. Her voice was slight and reedy, like her malnourished body. She was dressed in a rough cotton tunic and patched wool pants. He could practically see her ribs through the thin, coarse garment, soaked through as it was with rain.

Jakt smiled and shook his head. He crouched down to her level. She looked at her feet, bashful.

"No, I'm not a knight, I'm afraid. What's your name?"

"Braith?" came a sharp voice. Jakt looked up to see the Bosmer woman, bent over another corpse. She called the name once more over her shoulder, but didn't seem bothered that Braith did not come when she was beckoned.

"It's a pretty name," Jakt said, and Braith's eyes met his own and she smiled shyly. "Where are your parents?"

Braith's smile disappeared instantly, and she looked at her feet once more. After a moment, she replied,

"Arialle's my mama now. And Daj'en is - well, was - my papa." She frowned and sniffed, and Jakt got the feeling that she wasn't all that sad about Daj'en no longer being her papa.

"Now I've lost two papas!" she sobbed suddenly, and threw her arms around Jakt's shoulders, crying uncontrollably. Jakt rocked backwards on the balls of his feet, surprised and feeling quite awkward. After a moment he gingerly put his arms around the poor little girl in an attempt to comfort her. He looked over her shoulder at Esbern, who had moved over to sit on a stone nearby, and was draining his boots of water. Seeing Jakt mouth for help, the old man merely smiled and shrugged before continuing his task.

The little girl sobbed for a few quick moments and then drew back, wiping her eyes.

"My name is Jakt," he said, unsure of what to say to her.

"Jakt," she repeated, scrunching up her face, "Your name is too short for a Knight, Sir. You ought to get a new one."

Jakt stifled a laugh. Then the Bosmer woman appeared standing behind Braith and he stood to address her.

"Braith," the wood elf said, her tone severe, "I told you, you're not to ever talk to strangers. Now come with me, you rotten child."

Seeing how the little girl recoiled from her foster mother, anger surged through Jakt's veins.

"Whose child is she?" he asked, nostrils flaring, "She can't be yours."

"Does it matter?" the woman replied coldly, "She was wandering the roads when we found her. Her parents are long dead, or worse. She should be grateful." She turned back towards the child.

"Now Braith, it's time to go. Don't make me ask you again." She raised her hand in a threatening manner. The girl retreated behind Jakt and clung to his leg.

"Stupid, stubborn child!" the Bosmer said, cursing, starting forward, arms outstretched. Jakt put his hands on his hips and shook his head slowly.

The woman stopped, looked up at him, her large, dark eyes flashing with fear. Then she threw up her hands and turned away.

"Fine. She's your problem now. Ungrateful little bitch!"

Before Jakt realized the true implication of her words, the Bosmer had faded into the forest. He looked around frantically for her, and was about to call out when Esbern came striding over, shaking his head and smiling. Jakt looked down at Braith, clutching on to his leg with fresh tears in her eyes, and anxiety clutched at his stomach. _I know nothing about children!_

"The God's damn her!" he vented to Esbern, "What in Oblivion is that woman's problem?"

"Skooma," Esbern replied, not missing a beat. Seeing Jakt's surprise, he continued. "What, you couldn't smell it on her? Or notice her twitch? She's a smuggler, I'd wager. Bet you she and the Khajiit took the child on to make themselves seem less conspicuous."

"How do you know what Skooma smells like?"

Esbern shrugged nonchalantly.

"I've been around a long time, kid."

"Are you my new grandpa?" interrupted Braith, detaching herself from Jakt's leg and staring up at Esbern with a bright, mischievous smile. _She doesn't seem to miss her foster mother much either,_ Jakt thought to himself. He wondered if what Esbern had opined was true, but the Bosmer woman had yet to return.

Esbern looked down at her, then looked back up to Jakt.

"Perfect," he grumbled, "Another one. Orphans, bastards, broken things - they flock to you like fleas to a dog."

"Grandpa seems grumpy," Braith observed, "Doesn't he, Sir Knight?"

Jakt smiled down at her through his teeth. "Yes he does." He looked up to him, letting the panic show on his face. "What do we do with her?"

Esbern rolled his eyes. "Come on, we'll take her to the Temple of Kyne in Whiterun. The priestesses there will treat her well."

"But-"

"Jakt," Esbern said matter-of-factly, the mirth disappearing from his face, "I don't give a damn that you don't want to go to Whiterun. This is what happens when you play the hero and get involved in other people's business."

Jakt sighed and nodded; the old man was right once again. He looked at the bloody scene he had left in his wake one last time: at a second glance, the dead bandits all seemed scrawny, ill-fed, weak. Their desperation lingered on even after their lives had fled. He felt a sudden wave of weariness wash over him. _All this just to spare a Skooma dealer._

He looked up to see Esbern place a hand on Braith's head to ruffle her hair.

"Come, foolish child," he said, "Let's go build a fire. Grandpa's quite chilly."

Jakt smiled as the little girl dashed off to find firewood, feeling a bit of warmth return to his tired, soaked chest.

* * *

Frozen hunks of flesh, arms and legs and torsos arrayed in a macabre spiral, decorated the courtyard of the ancient Nordic stronghold. There was something disturbingly harmonious about it, like the elegant curve of a snail shell, radiating inwards to a central point.

"Trolls," J'zargo said, pointing to the severed head that sat at the center of the spiral. It was furred and apelike, fanged, with a third eye in the middle of its forehead. The fur, or at least the fur not stained rusty red with dried blood, was whiter than the snow and ice that surrounded them.

"Frost trolls," he corrected, "Nasty buggers. Wonder what killed them."

"Impossible to tell how long they've been sitting here," Lysana observed.

"Bandits? Graverobbers, perhaps?" Brelyna asked, her query accompanied by an anxious tremor.

"The pattern is too... sacrificial," Lysana replied, "I've known precious few bandits with such dramatic flair." Brelyna shot her a look, but she didn't care. She was in a mood, as J'zargo called them. It was early in the morning, miserably cold, and Labyrinthian was quiet as the grave.

"A warning, I'd conjecture." she continued. Brelyna shuddered, and Lysana was pretty sure that the cold had little to do with it.

Mountain peaks framed the ruined city to the north and south, sheltering it somewhat from the wind, but the shadows they cast and the stillness they wrought gave the ruins an eerie, tense atmosphere. The old city itself was barely more than a shell. Dilapidated walls, crumbled archways, empty husks of buildings. The platform upon which it lay was perhaps the size of Whiterun's cloud district, but not nearly as spacious, instead cluttered with the bones of structures long since collapsed or destroyed. The four walls of a keep towered nearby, the tallest structures left standing, on top of a raised stairway.

It was nearly impossible to distinguish the stone from the ice, and accumulated snow drifts, crusty and frosted, made navigating the ruins difficult. At least the elevation was low enough to preclude severe altitude sickness, unlike High Hrothgar.

J'zargo and Brelyna argued for half an hour about using magical means to clear a path. The Khajiit advocated for a couple of well-placed fireballs; the Dunmer worried about disturbing the scene, leaving not only a physical but magical imprint that might compromise the secrecy of their visit. In the end, the ice proved too entrenched to melt without a serious expenditure of energy, solving the dilemma for them. This worried Lysana: the magical aura of Labyrinthian was ancient and hung over her like an oppressive cloud. It made her sinuses ache - or was that the elevation? Lysana shook her head in a halfhearted attempt to clear it. Regardless, the wintery accouterments that coated the city's skeleton bespoke of a powerful frost enchantment.

"It doesn't look like much," J'zargo said, casting a wary glare about the city, "Other than this exhibit here."

"Something sapient," muttered Brelyna to herself, still staring at the gristly spiral. She pulled out her journal and a charcoal stick and began to sketch the display. Lysana marveled at her tendency for scholarly obsession, even in the face of such bitter cold and eerie disquiet.

"Labyrinthian's bounty lies beneath the earth," Lysana reminded the Khajiit, quoting Tolfdir as she spoke.

"As do its perils," Brelyna spoke up, still sketching.

"Guess we'd best find a way to get down there," the Khajiit muttered.

It did not take them long. Once they succeeded in dragging Brelyna away from the corpse spiral, Lysana immediately led them in the direction of the largest building, which she fingered for some sort of temple. Her speculation very nearly touched off a long-winded argument about the archaeological history of the building. _This is why mages never accomplish anything in groups,_ she reflected as they trudged into the building.

J'zargo was in the midst of an unnecessarily inflammatory statement about the falsity of Lysana's hypothesis, but he fell silent when he saw the scene that awaited them within the shelter of the building's dilapidated walls.

Several naked corpses of men and women hung from stone archways within the building. Their bodies were blue-black from the cold and eerily still: the ropes that held them were too frozen to sway. Brelyna immediately doubled over, retching. J'zargo looked queasy as well, but he kept it together. As with the troll bits, it was impossible to guess how long they had been hanging there because of the cold. Lysana gave them a cursory look - for as long as she could stomach, anyways - but even their race was difficult to discern through the ice.

She quickly decided that investigating the corpses was a pointless exercise and instead looked for some sort of passageway. A wooden door at one end of the building - the wall closest to the mountain, no less - looked promising. She ducked under the frostbitten feet of a massive man to get there, resisting the urge to look up into his eyes, which were frozen open. The others followed reluctantly.

The wooden door led into another, smaller room, which contained a plain staircase cut into the stone. Lysana peered down; it doubled back in on itself and disappeared into darkness. The lack of snow on the steps indicated to her that it had opened relatively recently.

"Right," she said to the others, "This seems like the place to start." She whispered a spell of candlelight, and a faint blue orb puffed into existence, bathing her in its soft, soothing light as it slowly floated to her eye level. Not looking back at the other two, she began to descend.

The air was a little warmer in the shelter of the tomb, warm enough such that Lysana removed her heavy fur hood. She had explored a Nordic tomb once before: Tolfdir had taken them to the ruins of a city called Saarthal when they had become apprentice acolytes. Together they had observed the archaeological practices of the ancient Nord people, and reflected on the nature of the residual magical auras that inhabited such places. What began as a downright creepy and very nearly dreadful field trip became an interesting and thoughtful discussion on the friction between magic and culture. The tomb harkened back to Skyrim's days of yore, Tolfdir had said, when those pursuing the study of magic were welcomed instead of ostracised. From Lysana's cynical viewpoint, however, 'worshipped' seemed a better descriptor for the way the ancient Nords treated their wizards.

Then again, she was not entirely opposed to being worshipped.

The tomb beneath Labyrinthian conformed to a familiar style: low, wide, oval-shaped tunnels, snaking through the earth, occasionally opening up into larger chambers populated with long stone tables, heavy iron sarcophagi, gigantic clay urns, and plentiful dragon motifs carved of wood, metal and stone. Saarthal had been full of mummified corpses stuck into square niches carved into the wall; Lysana had assumed they were lower-ranking cultists, who hadn't warranted their own burial masks or heavy iron coffins. She had marveled at the quality of their preservation - they were hideous, to be sure, but still very much intact - and suspected that mummification was aided by magical means. J'zargo had made a joke about zombies springing to life at any moment, which Brelyna had found in poor taste. Tolfdir had merely laughed and reassured them that they hadn't walked for thousands of years

The first major difference that Lysana noticed was that the wall niches in Labyrinthian were all empty. As were the sarcophagi, their impossibly heavy lids littered on the floor like common waste. This should have made her more nervous than it did, but for some reason it didn't concern her.

They moved through the tomb slowly and surely, each remembering Tolfdir's warning about the elaborate, deadly traps that these ruins often contained. Swinging axes, collapsing floors, spring-loaded dart launchers with poisoned tips: the kinds of demented devices of torture a cruel child with an active imagination might dream up.

They found no such things, only crumbled masonry, empty space, and silence. It began to grate on Lysana's nerves, already frayed as they were from traveling with her two peers. As they descended further into the mountain, the silence became more and more oppressive.

For Labyrinthian seemed to descend forever. The cool, still air, heavy with the stench of must and decay, began to assail her senses, to warp her sense of time and place ever so slightly. How long had she stared ahead at passageways that sloped ever so gently downward?

"This is awfully disappointing," J'zargo complained after a long silence, "Do you think we are in Shalidor's maze yet?"

Brelyna turned around to look at him, her eyes wide. "You aren't terrified?"

"Wait," Lysana said, bringing them to a halt, "Do you hear that?"

The other two stopped and strained their ears.

"There it is again," she said.

It seemed to carry through the stone, a rhythmic, repeating vibration, a low rumble that rose from below them.

"Almost sounds like… a chant," J'zargo said, screwing up his face in confusion.

Brelyna, who had become more and more visibly unnerved the further they descended into the mountain, was trembling.

"J'zargo," Lysana said, "Muffle our footsteps. You can do that, right?"

The Khajiit scoffed at her and spoke a quick command. There was a dim purple flash, and for a moment Lysana lost the feeling in her feet. They seemed impossibly light; She lifted one leg off the floor and brought it slamming down, but there was no sound on impact, and hardly any feeling of pain.

"Useful spell," she muttered to herself, making a mental note to try and learn it at a later time.

They started forward again, this time a little quicker. The muffled footsteps spell turned out to be an unnecessary precaution: they came across absolutely nothing of note. Regardless, some inexplicable sense of urgency seemed to take hold: the compulsion to dash down into the heart of the mountain, and then - _what?_ The low rumble got louder and higher in pitch as they went further, and Lysana began to feel cool, flowing air brush her face. _We must be nearing an exit,_ she thought to herself.

A strange, inexplicable excitement began to grip at her: she wanted to find the source of the chanting and join in, but some detached part of her brain kept nagging at her furor to do so. She looked around to see that her peers seemed to feel similarly: Brelyna had stopped shaking and was smiling stupidly as she walked, and J'zargo's eyes shone with elation. This soothed her in some essential way, and the frantic voice of doubt in her mind shrunk and crawled away like a wounded animal. With every rhythmic pulse that sounded through the earth the whisper of magic and power echoed, a fleeting promise of glory that once was.

At the end of a particularly long, snaking shaft, they came to a heavy iron door. She could practically see the trails of wind flowing out from the crack at the threshold. Lysana reached for the handle only to discover that it was locked; the Khajiit swore loudly between heavy panting. She pressed her ear to the metal, welcoming the icy kiss as it touched her flesh. The chanting was almost deafening now, and it seemed to be coming from the other side. She resisted the urge to pound against the frigid metal - but she had to get through that door!

"How do we get in?" asked the Dunmer, her face taught, her chest heaving.

"Spell," croaked the Khajiit, who stood with his legs wide apart, sheathing and unsheathing his claws repeatedly.

She remembered that she knew a spell that could open the door and fumbled to remember the commands. She closed her eyes to concentrate and came to the realization that something was very wrong.

 _Why can't you remember the spell, Lysana?_ asked the doubt-filled corner of her mind, and suddenly she remembered why she was here, and what she was doing. The spell came rushing back to her, but now she wasn't so sure it should be used; the incessant call of power that echoed from behind the door seemed fainter, less appealing.

"Wait," she said, her eyes tearing up from the strain of concentration, "Maybe we shouldn't go in.''

Brelyna looked at her like she was crazy. "Open it!" She ordered, her red eyes narrowing in anger.

The strange mind-warping effect seemed to be wearing off of J'zargo as well. He was clutching his head and hissing. Brelyna pushed Lysana to the side and strode to the door. She placed her hand on the latch and it clicked open.

"How did you-"

Brelyna turned back to Lysana. Her eyes seemed to flash blue for a moment. "They welcomed me," she whispered.

She threw open the door and slid inside. Lysana lurched forward to catch the heavy frame with her foot, then pushed it open to follow her.

She found herself inside a hollow chamber, atop a cliff like edge that looked to be rather high off the floor. Lysana looked up to see that the cavern was gargantuan: Dragonsreach could fit inside with plenty of room to spare. The walls were jagged and columnar, giving the chamber an ancient, primordial feel. The air inside the chamber was piercingly cold, and whirled around like a blizzard, tracing graceful spirals through the vast space. The rhythmic chanting noise, however, drowned out the sound of the wind. Brelyna stood before her at the edge of the platform, peering over. Lysana walked over and joined her.

A writhing mass of bodies lay perhaps a hundred feet below. Lysana recognized them at once: desiccated corpses, their rotting, flaky skin grey-blue in color, and dressed in heavy black armor corroded with age. A sea of eerily bright blue dots swam within: the eyes of the creatures, unblinking, luminescent. They were the source of the chanting: somehow they were still capable of speech, emitting a repeated, guttural phrase. There must have been thousands of them. Whatever strange, magically-influenced desire she had felt to join in on the ritual flitted away like a leaf on the breeze.

"Draugr," Brelyna said, swallowing, "An army of them." The spell seemed to have broken its hold on her as well, horror taking over instead. Her nose had begun to bleed.

"What are they saying?" she whispered to Brelyna over the din.

The Dunmer turned to her, her face scrunched up with fear. She turned back and pointed down at one end of the chamber.

" _Morokei_ ," she whispered back.

Lysana strained her eyes to see what Brelyna had indicated. A figure floated in the air above a mound of bleached-white bones. Lysana recognized the horned, reptilian skull that lay atop the pile. It was the remains of a dragon.

The chanting became more clear as she realized just what the corpses were saying.

 _Morokei. Morokei._

The body hovering above it wore loose robes, and what looked like a mask carved from wood. It was too far away, however, to make out any of its details. The figure seemed to be the source of the atmospheric disturbances; the trails of frost that whirled through the air seemed to spiral outwards from its levitating body. In its hand it clutched-

"The staff," Lysana breathed. Brelyna nodded. The floating wizard - most likely the subject of the chanting - was whirling the distinctive three-pronged staff in the air like a conductor in front of a choir. He seemed to be directing the trails of frost at something, but Lysana couldn't tell what that was.

"What do we do?" she asked.

Lysana shook her head. "We get out of here. Tell Tolfdir what we saw-"

Brelyna grabbed her shoulder, her eyes frenzied, flashing blue once more.

"No!"

"Brelyna, what-"

"He calls," she whispered.

 _Morokei. Morokei._

"Snap out of it!" Lysana growled, grabbing the dark elf and shaking her back and forth. The Dunmer woman shrieked and scratched at Lysana's face, grabbing at her hood and pulling it over her face. Momentarily disoriented, Lysana felt sharp nails break the skin of her cheek and forehead and cried out, shoving Brelyna backwards in an attempt to untangle her. Brelyna released her and staggered backwards, clutching at her head, groaning. Lysana wiped blood from her eyes just in time to see her, awfully close to the edge-

"Brelyna, watch out!"

But it was too late. The Dunmer slipped and fell.

Lysana lurched forward, reaching with both hands, just in time to see Brelyna plummet, screaming, and disappear into the mass of spindly blue-eyed bodies below.

Slowly, a section of luminescent blue eyes all turned upwards to look her way. The chanting did not falter.

 _Morokei. Morokei._

She threw herself back from the ledge, heart beating fast. Scrambling to her feet, she ran to the door. It didn't budge; she nearly burst out in a sob, but then she remembered her lockpicking spell. Frantically she whispered the words; the door clicked open.

"J'zargo!" she called, realizing at that moment that the Khajiit had not followed them into the gathering chamber. She stared into the gloom of the tunnel; he was nowhere to be found. Her head throbbed and she felt sick. _Brelyna…_

She stood, dumbfounded, heaving. Then the chanting was joined by a new noise, no less rhythmic: the clunk of many heavy boots marching over stone.

Lysana raced up the tunnel, her instinct for self-preservation taking over.

 _Morokei. Morokei._

The chant assaulted her senses as she sprinted back the way they had come, but her drive to escape it kept its strange, mind-numbing effect at bay. She got lost several times on her way back up - almost breaking down in fear and exhaustion after coming to a room she did not recognize - but then she figured as long as she kept moving upwards, she would reach an exit at some point. Labyrinthian was a colossal ruin, with miles and miles of underground pathways, and she had a feeling that the pathway they had taken had been one of many avenues from the audience chamber to the surface.

She had been jogging for three quarters of an hour when she first encountered the Draugr.

The air was beginning to feel cooler - a positive sign, she opined, as it indicated that she was nearing the surface of the tomb - when suddenly, right in front of her, the metal lid of a standing sarcophagus burst open, revealing a secret passageway behind it. The Draugr poured out like water from a bad leak, spotting her instantly, their heavy boots and creaking bodies echoing loudly in the oval-shaped chamber. She screamed and backpedaled furiously, wracking her brains for an appropriate spell as they clunked after her.

In a state of desperation she threw up a magical ward with one hand and loosed a fireball with the other. The poorly-cast ward blocked the searing heat of the spell but couldn't handle the full extent of its concussive force, collapsing inward and sending her careening backwards. She clunked her back against a heavy clay urn and fell to the floor, the pain of impact causing her eyes to water. She forced herself upwards, prepared to launch a gout of flame from her hands, but it proved unnecessary. She cleared her eyes only to see a dozen burning draugr, staggering about, writhing on the floor, growling and screeching in their guttural voices. Their dry, papery skin caught flame easier than dead brush in a Khajiiti summer, and she wondered at that moment if they still felt pain. Certainly, they seemed to retain some autonomy in their undead state: it wouldn't be much of a stretch.

But there was no time for academic inquiries. Lyana lifted her robes and picked her way through the burning corpses. She turned about to see several more of the undead Nords pouring forth from the passageway, but while they were certainly fearsome they were not very fleet.

All of a sudden she found herself on the surface of Labyrinthian once more. It came as a surprise, the bluish glow of her candle spell giving way to a dim grey light in the blink of an eye. They must have been down in the tomb longer than she'd thought: the sun was low in the sky, invisible behind the nearest mountain. The chanting of the Draugr, which had gradually quieted as she ascended, gave way to a howling wind. It must have grown, or changed direction, since they had entered the ruin. Tiny particles of snow and ice whirled past her face, forcing her to turn away.

Shielding her eyes, she looked around to get her bearings, only to find herself in a different location from where they had first descended. The tunnel exit was carved directly into the mountainside, and the door she had just run through hung by one hinge. Inspecting the scorch marks that adorned the door, she touched the warped knob to find it slightly warm to the touch: someone must have blasted it open quite recently. She raced outwards, spotting the four walls of the temple nearby. A robed figure leaned up against the nearest wall. A tail protruded from its side, whipping about in the wind, a dead giveaway.

"J'zargo! You cowardly shit!" she shouted, exhaustion giving way to frustration. She had half a mind to drill an ice spike through his skull. She reached the Khajiit only to find someone else had beaten her to him; he was grimacing in pain, clutching his side. His robes were ragged and hung off his torso, revealing scorched fur that was wet with blood. A bald patch of skin revealed the telltale spiral scar of a lightning bolt strike.

"J'zargo, you-"

"They followed us here," he interrupted her with a gasp, his breathing ragged and uneven. His pupils were dilated in fear and moistened by pain. He gestured with a jerk of his head around the corner.

"Who?"

"Thalmor."

Hoping fervently that he had been mistaken, Lysana peeked around the corner to spot three tall, black-robed figures stalking forward. One of them pointed towards her and opened his mouth, but the gale was too loud to pick out his words. She ducked back around, resisting the urge to scream. Repressed memories of darkness and despair came flooding back; gruesome, unending, the lashing of a whip, the twisting of metal calipers. Ugly, brutal, _physical_ pain, accompanied by high-pitched laughter and the occasional pointless question.

"Lysana!" J'zargo cried, taking a swipe at her to get her attention but missing and nearly collapsing with the effort, "Snap out of it! Do something!"

"What do they want?" she asked desperately, fighting her overbearing sense of terror.

"The staff," he replied miserably, holding out an empty hand in a darkly symbolic gesture.

"We'll have to fight them, then," she said, steeling her resolve. "Can you still cast?"

He grunted, rearranging himself on the wall, and nodded feebly.

"Remember that brilliant flame cloak spell you've been working on?" she added, deciding that stroking his ego was the best way to motivate him, "Think you can you cast it on the both of us?"

The Khajiit nodded again, stronger this time, even managing a cocky grin. The pain in his eyes disappeared as he sank into the throes of spellcasting; She grabbed him by the side and threw his arm over her shoulder, supporting him as he spoke the words. A wreathe of fire expanded outwards from his outstretched hand, enveloping them in a whirling circle of flame that stretched from their heads to their toes. Lysana felt warmth surge through her body, reinvigorating her; she raised her free hand and dragged the injured Khajiit around the corner.

She heard the wordless shouts of the cloaked Thalmor agents, spotting their dim bodies through the orange flame. Instinctively, one of the elves sent a fireball crashing into them, and she struggled to stay upright as a wave of pressure crashed over her. J'zargo's bizarre spell absorbed the worst of the projectile, however, absorbing the blast into its swirling mosaic of flame. Praying fervently that her aim was still what it used to be, she created a momentary hole in the cloaking spell with an improvised two-way ward in order to send two jagged spikes of ice flying at the nearest elf. She disliked frost-based destruction magic and had neglected to learn some of its more difficult spells, but she hoped that the blue-white spears would be harder to spot in the blizzard and therefore harder to anticipate or dodge.

Her hunch worked; the nearest Thalmor gave a scream as a meter-long spike tore through his robe and buried itself deep in his chest. J'zargo's howl of triumph was cut short as he ducked a bolt of lightning, but Lysana knew it was a trick that would only work once; no doubt their remaining adversaries were throwing up protective wards to counteract future ice missiles. One of them even tried a similar trick, lobbing a long, barbed icicle at the pair, but the heat of the cloak was enough to melt it instantly, and Lysana felt only droplets of water sprinkle over her.

J'zargo stumbled, and Lysana recognized that his strength, already lessened by his injury, had ebbed. The cloak seemed to flicker for a moment and another lightning bolt sizzled by her face, and she concluded that it was time to abandon the flame cloak.

"J'zargo!" she commanded, "Let go the spell!"

The Khajiit turned to face her, his face twisted in pain and rage. With a roar worthy of a saber-toothed lion, he pushed her away and threw out both of his hands. The cloak blossomed and expanded, swirling outwards in a storm of fire, accompanied by a powerful kinetic wave. Lysana's felt her feet fly out from under her: she was propelled backwards through the air by a fire spell for the second time that day. This time she skidded into a snowbank - a comparatively soft landing - but the warmth of the cloak abandoned her and she felt the icy grip of the mountain once more. She struggled upright, scanning the frigid ruin for signs of life. J'zargo lay face down, motionless, and one of their Thalmor opponents was sprawled out nearby, littered among a group of stones. Lysana determined, based on his horribly twisted limbs and the screams of pain that accompanied them, that the elf would not be getting up anytime soon.

Her body aching and bruised, she had just taken a step towards J'zargo's still form when a firebolt flashed in front of her eyes. She whirled about to see the last remaining elf stumbling towards her. Her hood had fallen off, revealing golden skin, but J'zargo had managed to badly scorch one half of her body, a burn that stretched up to her face. She staggered forward, gradually gaining confidence in her footing, while shrieking what Lysana assumed were obscenities in her native tongue.

Lysana fought back exhaustion and dropped into a crouch, minimizing the surface area of the protective ward she cast in order to conserve what was left of her magical stamina. The elf shouted a command and send a devastating bolt of lightning careening towards her. Lysana cried out at the effort of sustaining her ward upon the impact of the powerful missile. She replied in kind, sending a compact, precise arrow of flame hurdling towards her Thalmor assailant, but the elf deflected her spell with a simple wave of her hand and came on.

Unfortunately, her long months of inaction had left Lysana rusty in the magical combat department, and the Thalmor sorceress, despite what should have been a debilitating injury, was deadly and precise. She whirled a whiplike appendage of flame towards Lysana that the young Breton strained to block. She felt flames lick at her legs for a panicky moment before her ward dissipated the deadly spell, its soft blue light flashing once before fading. She had a split second to throw up another ward as a shard of ice hurled towards her. The magical shield shattered as it struck, and Lysana raised her arms to protect her face from the tiny shards of ice that exploded outwards. Before Lysana could react, a purple wave of magical energy lifted Lysana off her feet and threw her onto her back. She struck something hard with her elbow: a frozen piece of troll, harder than stone, the impact sending waves of agony through her body. The elf had cast a telekinesis spell, and Lysana looked upwards to see her opponent's face - one half, impossibly beautiful, the other scorched and hideous - grinning in victory. Lysana could hear her harsh laughter, despite the distance and the howl of the wind. _She's toying with me._

The Thalmor mage was so focused on her prey that she did not notice the hulking form that loomed behind her until it was too late.

The agent's laughter turned to a screech, and that sound mixed with the guttural roar of the Draugr as it tackled the sorceress to the ground. Lysana pulled herself upright and watched as the elf sent the Draugr careening away with another well-cast telekinesis spell, but three more took its place, falling upon the poor woman. They were armed with axes and swords of some dark iron alloy, decorated with gracefully carved runes, ancient weapons that looked impossibly heavy to wield. Two of the animated corpses pinned the struggling elf to the snow, while a third raised its weapon. Lysana turned away as it fell, but nothing on earth would ever make her forget the scream that accompanied the blow.

She whirled around to take in the scene. The Draugr seemed to materialize out of the mist, stalking forward slowly and deliberately, their unblinking eyes gleaming pale blue through the wind and the snow and the sleet. Lysana sprinted over to J'zargo, straining to turn over his body, but she knew as soon as she looked into the Khajiit's wide, vacant eyes that the strain of casting his last and greatest spell had quite literally sucked the life from his body.

Her heart plummeted, and she felt tears leak from her eyes, the moisture quickly freezing to her cheeks. She turned to face the horde of Draugr, fearing the end, but something had made them stop in their tracks. There must have been more than a hundred of them, clustered together on the ruins, and Lysana looked to see even more of them streaming out of the tunnel she had so recently escaped from.

They began to chant once more, thumping their feet along with the rhythm. But this time, the words were different.

 _Alduin. Alduin._

Lysana heard the telltale whump of heavy leather wings on the air. She saw the serpentine shadow of some mammoth winged beast, its head adorned with wicked horns, tracing its way across the plateau. But she did not look up.

Instead she stood and ran. She did not stop until her exhaustion led to her collapse, many miles down the mountain.

* * *

A/N: This took longer than I thought. Suffice to say that I feel the same way writing about Nordic Ruins as I do wandering through them in the game: if I have to do it one more time, my fingers are gonna fall off.


	3. The Shadow's Kiss

_"Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear."_

-The Black Sacrament

His eyes snapped open just as a thin line of light appeared over the horizon, peeking cautiously through the shuttered window of the one-roomed cottage. He shifted his gaze down, keeping his head still, just as she sighed and shifted slowly in her sleep. As her warm, sweet breath puffed rhythmically across his cheek, he felt her hand unconsciously knead his shoulder. He waited a minute for the remnants of sleep to loosen their clutches on his body and brain. Then, gingerly, he slid her arm from his torso, then reached down and slowly moved her supple, shapely leg off of his own. After waiting a moment to ensure she slept still, he slipped from the bed and stretched luxuriously.

He caught a glimpse of himself in a cheap, clouded mirror perched on a dresser as he passed and stopped to admire his reflection for just a moment. His curly black hair was quite tangled as a result of last night's activity, and its current state combined with his unkempt beard made him appear quite the roving miscreant. Thankfully, the scruff on his chin did not blunt his sharp, handsome jaw, and his swarthy skin glowed ever so slightly in the morning light. A pair of youthful brown eyes stared back at him as he surveyed the mirror's contents.

Satisfied, he silently padded over to the tangle of clothing that adorned the floor of the hut. All in all, it was a seamless operation. His execution was flawless - the product of much experience - so it came as a great surprise when, just as he'd pulled on his trousers, he heard a tiny cough over his shoulder.

He turned around to find her sitting curled up in bed, wide awake, a slight but sultry smile adorning her heart-shaped face. Her hazy blue eyes, filtered through the long lashes of her half-closed eyelids, reminded him of the gaze of a mountain cat that had spotted its prey. Her tangled mane of hair, dirty blonde and partially braided, made her appear even more animalistic.

"This must be why you call yourself the Dawn Raven," she said. Her voice was crisp and cultured, without any trace of an accent - surprising for a Nord girl in a provincial village. "You take what you can get and then fly away with the sun."

He shrugged, pleasantly tickled by her clever words, but decided to remain silent. She patted the bed beside her. He did not move to return to the bed - but neither did he continue to dress.

"You're not going to make me get up, are you?"

The Dawn Raven's smile widened. She rolled her eyes and rose, uncurling her legs and springing gracefully to her feet. He admired her as she stalked towards him, swaying her hips; she was lithe and swift, and just as her perfect breasts sway back and forth so too did her abdomen ripple with musculature. He wondered how old she was - mid twenties, perhaps? Much younger than he, in any case.

She reached him and pulled him into a passionate kiss, sucking at his bottom lip before snaking her tongue into his mouth. He felt himself stiffen immediately as she pressed her body against his. The Raven decided that his departure was not necessarily an imminent concern and allowed her to start slowly leading him back towards their bed.

All of a sudden there came a furious knock at the door. Their lips broke apart, but she did not move away, shifting her body slightly but maintaining the horribly distracting pressure around his pelvic area. He looked her in the face as she stared at the door: uncertainty and fear had crept into her eyes, replacing lust.

"Astrid!" came a roar from behind the door, followed by another round of furious pounding. It was unmistakably a man's voice, deep and booming. The Dawn Raven felt panic settle in, and he twisted out of her arms and ran to collect the rest of his gear.

"It's my husband," she said in a low voice, "I wasn't expecting him untill - quickly, you must -"

But her words were lost in the sound of splintering wood as the door collapsed inwards. A huge bearded Nord man, his hair just as long and unkempt as his wife's but far more blonde, came barrelling in through the door. He was dressed in faded leather and held a heavy woodcarver's axe with one hand as if it was a toothpick.

He zeroed in on the Raven immediately.

"Why you little-"

"Arnbjorn, wait!"

The Dawn Raven was of average height and build. In Skyrim, this meant he was practically a runt. While his size gave him several distinct advantages in his particular line of work, it did not suit him well for combat with those such as Arnbjorn.

The shaggy Nord swung his axe with gusto, nearly cleaving the footboard in two with one vicious stroke. The Raven threw himself sideways, came up in an awkward, clumsy roll, then reached into his trousers to a small throwing knife he kept sewed to his right pant leg.

But the knife wasn't there.

He groped about for a moment in his pants, his mouth wide open with astonishment, drawing a suitably confused but still angry look from Arnbjorn.

"You damned PERVERT!" the Nord roared, rushing towards him once more. Astrid had wrapped herself in a blanket, but it kept tripping her up as she tried to calm her furious husband without success.

The Raven shuffled around Arnbjorn's next frantic attack and dove towards his sword, which he'd left propped up in its sheath in the corner of the hut.

But the blade was gone as well! He swore loudly, sidestepped another off-kilter lunge of Arnbjorn's axe, then decided that anything he'd left on the floor of the hut was not really worth it anyways. He vaulted over the small hut's empty fire pit, dodged past the hysterical Astrid, and catapulted himself through the nearest window. The rickety wood slats crumpled outwards as he smashed into them. He felt a sharp pain in his left calf as he landed in a heap outside, but chalked it up to splinters, and pushed himself upright.

The small village that surrounded Half-Moon Mill was mercifully close to Falkreath Wood; its densely-packed haven of trees had never looked more inviting. Just as he began to sprint away from the hut and into the safety of the brush, he became aware of a bizarre tingling sensation in the toes of his left foot. Then, without warning, his left leg gave out from under him and he tumbled forward, landing in a heap.

The Raven swore again and pushed himself to his feet, but found he could barely support any weight with his leg. He looked downwards and realized why: a small crossbow bolt had buried itself in his calf. He reached down and plucked the bolt from his leg. The wound was shallow, for the bolt was tiny, barely longer than the length of his hand. It was fletched with dark red feathers. The tip must have been poisoned: most likely with extract of canis root, a powerful anesthetic popular amongst those in the Raven's line of work.

He took a wobbly step forward, and immediately toppled over. The numb feeling flooded down his right leg as it simultaneously worked its way up into his torso. He started to panic and sweat, reaching out both arms and trying desperately to drag himself forward with his fingers. But his attempts were useless: he'd barely gone two yards before he began to lose the feeling in his arms as well.

He flipped himself onto his side as his head began to feel dizzy. It quickly became a struggle to keep his eyes open as his brain felt more and more sluggish. The last thing he saw before he gave in to unconsciousness were two pairs of pale feet: one squat and large and covered with coarse blond hair, the other smaller, perfectly arched, with exquisite nails painted blood red.

* * *

The Dawn Raven awoke some time later in a dim room, tied to a chair. It was chilly, and nobody had bothered to dress him. The walls were nondescript stone, with a wooden door at one end. The only other thing in the room was a wooden table. On the table rested several imposing objects - a pair of rusty pliers, a bonesaw, calipers and whips and iron knuckles - that were very clearly instruments of torture. He groaned. _Why does every unsavory character I come across seem to have a torture fetish?_

He was in the process of tugging at his bonds to determine their strength when the door opened. A tall, spindly Redguard sauntered in, dressed in the customary garb of the Alik'r desert tribes, albeit with a crimson turban. He had slender, sharp features, a hawkish nose and a pointed black goatee. His age was difficult to determine; he had noticeable laugh lines that contrasted poorly with a pair of cold grey eyes. The Raven recognized him immediately.

"Well, well," He began in a deep, smooth voice, "If it isn't the Dawn Raven of Bravil, 'Quintus Drake.' Is that the name you're going by these days?"

"Hello, Nazir," the Raven replied, his own reedy voice flat and acerbic, "Keeping strange company as of late. Those who better share your... unique sensibilities?" He gestured to the utensil-laden table with a nod of his head.

Nazir chuckled. "The Guild was always squeamish about my methods. My new friends, on the other hand, are a little more _goal-oriented_ , if you catch my drift."

Quintus Drake was starting to get a feeling for Nazir's new friends, and it wasn't a good one. Clearly it had been a setup (the seductive miller's wife - how in Oblivion had he fallen for that one _again_?) A caper like that, which reminded Drake of his early days as a young thief, most likely required some serious setup, thereby indicating an impressive level of organization. Perhaps approaching the level of the Thieves Guild - but then the Guild as he'd known it tended to shy away from performing abductions.

Not to mention that the Guild had blacklisted him two years prior, going out of its way to sever all contact under pain of, well, lots of pain.

"In any case, Quintus," Nazir continued, clasping his hands behind his back and slowly circling around the chair in a manner he probably considered intimidating, "We've been looking for you for some time now. You've proved quite slippery as of late; all our old contacts in the Thieves Guild were disappointingly ignorant of your whereabouts."

"Cut to the chase, Nazir. I've no intention of being uncooperative."

Nazir ignored him. "It must be strange. From Guildmaster to sworn enemy, in such a short span! Your fall was as meteoric as your rise, it seems."

Drake felt a prickle of irritation. "Well, _that_ was below the belt."

Nazir shook his head, chuckling once more. "Say what you will about Mercer Frey, at least he preserved the status quo. For a such a skilled thief, you're remarkably unsubtle. Our fellow thieves were bound to get fed up with your antics sooner or later."

"Is this about kicking you out? Because, you know, I wasn't the only one involved in that-"

"My friends and I aren't concerned with your brief and brilliant career," Nazir interrupted, "Rather, what happened afterwards."

Drake understood. "Oh, I see. This is about the Dragonborn, isn't it?"

Annoyance flashed over Nazir's face. Drake felt smug and decided to continue.

"All the rage lately, isn't he? Lots of folk interested in him, I'd wager."

The door opened and a woman strode in. It was Astrid, the miller's wife, though she looked quite different: she was garbed in form-fitting studded leather, mostly black with crimson accents. Her hair was taut and braided (better suited to combat, Drake surmised) and a pair of wicked looking daggers were tucked into her belt. She wore a cold, aloof expression.

"Well well," Drake began, "If it isn't the miller's wife. I liked you better when you were-"

She closed the distance between them and backhanded him across the face before he could finish his lewd sentence. It _hurt_. Her gloves had spiked knuckles and although she was petite for a Nord she evidently retained some of that Nordic strength. His head swam for a moment and he felt warm blood start to trickle down his cheek.

"Nazir is far more polite and patient than I," she began in a clipped tone, not waiting for him to recover, "Cooperate, or you will suffer much before your end." Her words were calm, emotionless. Drake's stomach turned uneasily.

"I'd like to cooperate," he started, making a halfhearted attempt to dull the sarcastic edge in his voice, "But you're going to have to give me a bit-"

She backhanded him once more, the other cheek this time. Reeling, he spat a gob of blood from his mouth. Once the pain had subsided somewhat he looked up into her face. She maintained her cold calm, but her blue eyes seemed to glint and sizzle with sadistic excitement. Drake resolved to speak only when spoken to from then on.

Nazir looked at Astrid with what might have been distaste before stepping forward once more. "You grasp at the truth," he drawled, "We seek the Dragonborn, Jakt the Dragonbane."

"He's really taken to calling himself that?" Drake asked skeptically, immediately forgetting his own rule and shying away when Astrid raised her hand once more. He knew that Nords liked their epithets the way Orcs liked rancid liquor, but Jakt hadn't seemed too keen on adding a pompous appellation to his short and harsh moniker.

 _Boring as he was._

Nazir shrugged. "Several witnesses placed you with him over a three-month period, around the beginning of the Dragon crisis. You were observed together in Whiterun, Solitude, and most notably at an official function of the Thalmor Embassy."

"That was many months ago," Drake reminded him, "My only contact with him since then was, er, a minor skirmish in Riften-"

"Yes, you helped him escape certain capture, torture, and plausible death by the Dominion," Astrid derided him, "Against the wishes of your master, might I add."

Drake felt uneasy once more. "How do you-"

"It makes no difference, fool," she said. "Furthermore, you aided your third companion in her escape from the Thalmor, following her own inprisonment. Selfless acts for a noted criminal such as yourself."

Nostalgia - mixed with an iota of guilt - prickled at Drake's brain. His time spent travelling with the Dragonborn was fast disappearing into the past, but (aside from a few bumps in the road) he remembered it as a welcome moment of respite. It had been a chance to act on impulse: roaming Skyrim in search of new fortune, profiting off the fame of another and - _dare I say it? -_ perhaps achieving some good. A _concrete_ good, for that matter, that was not born strictly of self-interest.

In other words, a new start, free from the baggage of his long, convoluted career as a thief and all-around scoundrel. Then Maven Blackbriar, his personal reaper, had come to collect on an outstanding debt.

"Perhaps time spent playing the hero has addled your brain," Nazir interrupted his train of thought, "But what's done is done. Since your parting, the Dragonborn has made himself scarce. Our sources placed him in the vicinity of Markarth, but the Reach has proved difficult for us to navigate, owing to its instability."

"So this is where I come in, then," Drake interrupted, "You think I can help you find him." He laughed in spite of his predicament. "That's ridiculous! I've not seen him for months, and we hardly parted on good terms-"

Astrid stepped forward and, before he could even blink, jabbed her elbow into his chest right below his sternum. The air fled his windpipe like a bat out of Oblivion. He flopped about in his chair for a moment as he struggled to regain his breath. Gradually his vision stopped swimming and he regained control over his lungs.

"Kynareth's tits," he said after a moment, grinning stupidly, "Why didn't you try anything kinky like that last night?"

Astrid's eyes flashed. She took a step forward, raised her leg, and slammed her hard leather boot down on to Drake's unprotected toes.

He howled.

A moment later, once he had finished, Nazir coughed politely. "That ought to wake up the initiates," he deadpanned, casting a disdainful glance at Astrid once more.

"You know… Nazir," Drake panted, sucking in air, his poor toes throbbing, "I'm no... expert on torture, but... you aren't giving me much… incentive to help you out."

"You'll forgive Astrid, I'm sure," Nazir replied unconcernedly, "She's keen to continue the hunt."

"Besides," Astrid added, "I've wasted far too much time tracking you down not to enjoy having you." Her eyes glinted.

"That includes... last night then, doesn't it?" Drake asked despite himself. He immediately ducked his head and squeezed his eyes shut, expecting her to lash out once more, but the blow never came; when he looked back up at her, she was grinning widely, her hazy blue orbs fixed to his. Somehow that smile was more disturbing than any physical pain she might inflict.

"You seem to determined to make this hard for yourself, old friend," Nazir sighed, "Astrid is still learning from my, ah, _expertise_ , but I assure you she has proven an able, if not overly enthusiastic, apprentice."

Astrid walked over to the table of torture implements and began to rifle through them, taking an inordinate amount of time to decide which one to begin with.

"Now, just wait a minute," Drake said, stammering, "Like I said before, I have every intention of cooperating. What do you want to know?" He felt a prickle of guilt once more. _Twice in one day? Perhaps age is turning me soft._ But he had no great desire to be tortured, and besides, Jakt could take care of himself, couldn't he?

"Why, where to find the Dragonborn, of course," Nazir said nonchalantly, looking over towards Astrid's turned back and sighing audibly.

"How should I know?"

Astrid turned around, holding an old, rusty corkscrew. She looked at Drake for a moment, testing the instrument, zeroing in on different areas of his body.

"Ask me anything, I'll answer it!" Drake said frantically, his latent cooperative spirit momentarily overpowering his ingrained compulsion towards snark.

"Where is the Dragonborn?" Astrid's cool, collected voice, which had been so sultry the night before, sent shivers of an entirely different sort down his spine.

"I- I don't know! I just told- But, but, Delphine will know!"

"Delphine?" Astrid had begun to walk forward, spinning and flipping the corkscrew like a throwing knife. She stopped, a bemused look coming over her that did not agree with her cunning and predatory profile.

"Yes! She's a Blade. Find the Blades, you find the Dragonborn."

"We already found the Blades," Nazir replied, "Near Dragonbridge. No Dragonborn. You'll have to do better than that."

"Wait!" Drake cried as Astrid gently traced the cruel, gnarled tip of the corkscrew up and down his bare torso, "What about High Hrothgar?"

Nazir signalled to Astrid, who pulled away with an annoyed glare.

"Explain."

Drake trembled with relief. "Well, he made a trip to High Hrothgar when we were traveling together - to train with the Greybeards, I think - and at one point he talked about going back."

"Interesting," mused Nazir, "It would be relatively easy to plant someone in Ivarstead or at the foot of the mountain path."

"He also, ah, might come through Whiterun."

"Why would he ever do that?" Astrid asked sharply, "He's trying to stay hidden."

"Er," Drake said, avoiding eye contact with the young woman, "He's a Thane in Jarl Bulgruuf's court, believe it or not. Not to mention that Whiterun is en route to High Hrothgar from the Reach. He'd likely rest and resupply in the city and be welcomed openly by the Jarl, not to mention kept out of sight. Your, ah, agents could blend in easily there."

Nazir smiled; if not for his utterly expressionless eyes, it might have passed for warm-hearted. "Well then. You've been surprisingly helpful. I think that's enough for today."

He turned around and made for the door; Astrid rose as if to comply.

"Wait!" Drake appealed to them frantically, "You're just going to leave me tied up like this?"

Astrid smiled and nodded. Nazir merely shrugged.

"You can't just -" he sputtered, anger and despair taking hold of him, "When Maven founds out about this…"

"Oh Quintus," Nazir sighed, "Who do you think hired us?"

With a wave of his hand he vanished out of the door. Drake was dumbfounded for a second. Then he realized that Astrid hadn't left: she stood near the doorway, an unreadable expression on her face.

"Great," he said, "Alone again with you. Just what I wanted."

"You haven't yet figured out who you're dealing with, have you, Quintus?" she asked, stalking forward in her seductive, catlike fashion.

Drake had a pretty good idea, but he was afraid to put his suspicions into words. The fear that made his heart pound, however, did not dull his tendency towards facetiousness.

"All of the _pain_ I'm in right now sure has got me going," he said as Astrid came towards him, squirming in his chair and gesturing to his pelvic region with his chin, "Why don't you just hop right on and have a go around? I can see that torment and agony get you all excited too. Shame I didn't know that previously-"

Astrid skipped forward and straddled him, wrapping her legs around his thighs and grinding herself into him. Before he could yelp in surprise she took his face in her hands and pressed their lips together in a wet, forceful kiss. Artfully she darted her tongue in and out of his mouth, bit his lip, let out a moan. She grabbed his hair with one hand and forced his head to the side, exposing his neck; She kissed her way up to his ear in a truncated arc. It was too much: he felt his member spring to attention, in spite of his predicament. Confusion, revulsion, terror and lust duked it out for control of his mental capacities.

Astrid flicked his earlobe with her tongue, then planted her soft lips on his ear and whispered something.

" _Hail Sithis_."

The breathy words, magnified by her proximity, clanged painfully against his eardrum. All of a sudden she sprung up, relieving the weight of her body from his tensed legs. The corkscrew reappeared in her hands and she lashed out, slicing a diagonal line across his torso with its sharp end. He cried out in pain and looked down to see a thin red line appear, stretching from his right collarbone to his left armpit. He looked up, tears at the corner of his eyes, to catch one last glimpse of Astrid's firm, shapely behind - superbly accentuated by her form-fitting leather trousers - as she disappeared behind the closing door.

He slumped down in the chair, cursing his inability to curl up into a fetal position. The wound was shallow but stung fiercely; blood began to dribble down his torso. He closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated on breathing slow, hoping that it would soon coagulate. It took him a moment to realize that he was not alone in the room.

A small form seemed to materialize in front of him. He yelped and squirmed, aggravating his cut in the process. Momentary panic gave way to bemusement as realized that a little girl stood before him, perhaps nine or ten at most. She had shoulder length black hair that shone in the candlelight, and she was dressed quite well for one her age, garbed in a black velvet dress accented with red and silver.

"What in Oblivion? Who are you?"

She did not answer. Exhaustion, pain, anxiety, and lingering arousal all gave way to chill dread when he met her eyes. They were an unnatural shade of orange, shiny like a Khajiit's, but with small, round pupils. Something about her seemed very wrong: her skin was so pale it was almost grey, and her cheeks were sunken, almost skeletal. The air in the room, never very warm to begin with, grew positively clammy as she stepped towards him.

"She has marked you," the little girl remarked, reaching a hand towards Drake and placing the tips of her fingers on his bleeding chest. Her voice was small and waivered like a child's, but something ancient and ephemeral seemed to lurk behind it. Her fingers were bitterly cold, like those of a frozen corpse.

"Yeah? She's one messed up little harpy," he said, grimacing at her icy touch.

"Astrid always claims her marks," the girl continued, not moving her hand, "One way or another. It will only be a matter of time."

"Who are you?" he asked.

The little girl withdrew her hand, looking at the blood at her fingertips.

"You don't recognize me, brother?" she asked quietly, bringing her fingers to her lips and opening her mouth to lick them clean. He caught a glimpse of long, white canines. Realization surged through him, and every muscle in his body clenched in horror.

"Get away from me," he said, with a strange calmness he did not feel. "I am no brother of yours."

"Though the disease may be purged," she whispered, her eyes glinting, "the blood never thins."

"This is _exactly_ what I need right now," groaned Drake. "Please leave."

"I'm going to enjoy having you around, blood of my blood," the little girl said with a nightmarish smile. She whirled about and was gone, disappearing even quicker than Astrid.

But the chill in the air remained.

* * *

The early dawn light streaming through the fine glass windows of the Blue Palace lent the office an air of hope that Falk Firebeard did not feel. He paced back and forth, waiting for his early-morning visitor, unable to concentrate on the contents of the open letter at his desk. Sleep had not come willingly to him the previous night, visiting only in brief and unsatisfying fits instead.

Firebeard, so named for his distinctive dark-red mane, was a seasoned presence in Solitude's court. Born a carpenter's son, he had found his father's profession droll and unfulfilling. A clever lad with grand dreams, he enlisted in the Imperial Legion at sixteen, serving at the tail end of the Great War. Given the freedom to exercise his ingenuity and cunning due to the chaotic nature of Emperor Titus Mede II's Cyrodilic campaign, he caught the eye of his Legate, a tough, shrewd man named Cato Tullius. Though Falk was badly wounded during the Battle of the Red Ring, Firebeard benefitted from Tullius' subsequent promotion following Mede's victory, managing to parlay the General's favor into a spot in the Empire's diplomatic corps. Falk watched the political encroachment of the Aldmeri Dominion as an Imperial statesmen stationed in Skyrim. Though Falk managed to work his way up to a senior position, the two lethargic decades that followed proved supremely disheartening, as Mede's dynasty continued to appease the Thalmor at every turn.

Following High King Torygg's murder at the hands of Ulfric, Firebeard had assumed the mantle of steward to Queen Elisif at Tullius' bequest, as their previous steward had declared his support for Ulfric Stormcloak's claim to the throne. The murder and its fallout proved a devastating political upset, and Falk had been left to pick up the pieces. That had been nearly one year ago, and as if Ulfric's Rebellion hadn't been enough, he now found himself coordinating a war on two fronts: one against Ulfric, and the other against an ancient and unknowable enemy.

The door opened as Falk paced, and his morning appointment sidled in.

"Greetings, Erikur," Falk said politely, concealing his lack of enthusiasm for this particular meeting with ease born of years of practicing diplomacy.

"Likewise, Falk," Erikur replied, grinning in reply. The two men grasped hands and Falk offered his guest a seat on the couch that sat before his desk. Erikur declined with a wave of his hand, walking over to the window instead and watching the sun as it rose above the horizon. Falk took a moment to size up his guest.

A Thane in Jarl Elisif's court, Erikur was the son of a wealthy merchant and a second cousin of the Jarl herself. He was younger than Falk, a blond, ruddy-faced Nord with a large physique gone slightly to seed, dressed in fine silks and fur that were at odds with Falk's unadorned doublet. Erikur had consolidated the influence of his family through a series of shrewd business acquisitions, investing his father's fortune in key mercantile organizations that operated throughout northern Tamriel. This included Blackbriar Meadery and the East Empire trading company, both of which depended heavily on Cyrodilic trade routes and Imperial subsidies to function lucratively. As a result, Erikur was a staunch Imperial supporter, perhaps the most loyal member of Elisif's court.

Firebeard held no love for Erikur. Not because of his allegiances - Falk considered himself a steadfast loyalist - but because the blond Thane was as pompous as he was ambitious, and wielded a dangerous amount of influence. He had cozied up to the Thalmor as well. Falk was a practical Nord and understood well the benefits of Imperial rule, but two decades of service had hardly quelled his distrust of the Aldmeri Dominion. Ambassador Elenwen and her peers were hardly subtle about the Dominion's ultimate goals for the subjugation of the Empire, and Falk understood his kin well enough to know that Skyrim would never willingly submit to Thalmor rule. It was a frequent source of stress for Firebeard.

"I'm assuming that you've read Avenicci's account?" Erikur asked nonchalantly, still facing the window.

Firebeard felt a prickle of annoyance. That letter had been for his eyes only, steward to steward. Finding the wax seal to be broken upon its delivery, he had assumed Erikur's involvement. But the young Thane was prickly, and Falk was a diplomat first and foremost, accustomed to handling powerful men and women with short fuses.

"I've taken a look at it," Falk replied in a neutral tone, "Not so surprising. Balgruuf is clever and capable. What's more surprising is that Avenicci would rat him out."

"The man's a proper Imperial citizen," Erikur replied with a shrug, turning to face Firebeard at last, "He realizes the implications of Balgruuf's politicking. He'll plunge Skyrim into a war far worse than Ulfric's, should he succeed."

Falk nodded slowly. As usual, Erikur refused to acknowledge the dragon's return. Since their appearance nearly one year prior, the attacks had grown in frequency and severity. The steward often wondered at the implication of their presence, but his days were busy enough governing Solitude, coordinating the war effort, and handling Elisif's increasingly volatile court.

"Even more troublesome is that Rikke is in Whiterun," Erikur continued, "Some might see the Legate's presence as implicit support on behalf of Tullius."

"Don't presume out of turn, Erikur," Firebeard reprimanded softly, "Rikke is most likely there to oversee Whiterun's defense, now that Balgruuf seeks Imperial support, or at least surficially. Let us not jump to conclusions."

"On that note, where is Tullius?" Erikur demanded, "The good general has not made an appearance in court in some time. The Thanes are anxious to know the war's current status."

"Tullius is in the Pale, overseeing the Dawnstar campaign," Falk replied, waving a dismissive hand, "After the Stone-Fist pushed the Imperials from Riften he has divided his time between there and Falkreath Hold. The Stormcloaks have pushed steadily south from Windhelm and Winterhold, but Tullius believes Dawnstar will soon fall, allowing us to move west and erode their grip on the north."

"War will come to Balgruuf's borders, then," Erikur observed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He kept himself clean shaven in the Imperial style, which irked many of Skyrim's more traditional nobles. Falk nodded and sighed.

"Our Fair Queen has been sticking her nose into my business again," Erikur said after a moment, "Thane Bryling has her ear, it seems. You'd do best to counsel her against further investigations, Falk."

At the mention of Bryling's name Falk felt a stab of anger. "Bryling has a point, Erikur," he said curtly, "Rumors abound of your questionable business practices. The pirates seem to be giving your ships a wide berth that they do not extend to your rivals."

Erikur leaned against the wall and inclined his head, staring at Falk from beneath his lowered brow. "You'd be wise to remember that my business is paying for Elisif's war, Steward Firebeard," he said with a dangerous smile.

"A fact that is hard to forget, Thane Erikur," Falk responded with barely disguised irritation. "Elisif is headstrong and takes her duties as High Queen seriously. Much more so than her late husband."

"Yes, a pity that Torygg proved as feeble a warrior as he was a King," Erikur said with mock melancholy, "He was far easier to manipulate than his wife."

Falk nodded his agreement and kept his thoughts private. Torygg had been inattentive and sophomoric, yes, and his death had been more impactful than anything he had ever accomplished in life. Understandably, Elisif sought to distance herself from her husband's neglectful nature while honoring his memory in the process: not an easy feat. Falk respected her drive to involve herself in Skyrim's rule, but the sad truth was that the political situation was too fragile to allow a young, inexperienced and naive ruler hold much sway over its outcome. Her ideas, although well-meaning, were often too bombastic, and Falk had to work hard to juggle her clumsy attempts to assert herself. As if the everyday rabble of Solitude's court wasn't enough! _Perhaps when all settles down, she will have time to grow into the role. IF all settles down, that is._

"I have a plan to deal with Balgruuf," Erikur said after a moment, "Provided that you keep Bryling's shapely nose out of my business."

"Tell me your plan, Erikur, and I'll consider it," Falk replied.

Erikur smiled slyly and shook his head. "Come now, Steward," he said, "Don't be a fool. What would happen to your career if you're implicated in my... schemes? I must maintain _some_ level of secrecy."

"If you were trying not to overly concern me, Erikur, then you have failed."

Erikur backtracked. "Alright, I'll outline what I can. It's quite simple, really. Tell me, Falk, what is it that makes the Thalmor so effective?"

Falk paused for a moment. There were many acceptable answers: ruthless pragmatism, unabashed tyranny, a fundamental disregard for human (and elven) life...

" _Manipulation_ ," Erikur said, not waiting for Falk's answer. "They have mastered the art of turning their enemies against one another and profiting from the strife that follows. I suggest that take a leaf from their book."

Firebeard sighed and thought for a long moment. Erikur waited this time, a sly smile once again playing about his features. A much younger Falk would have had serious trouble resisting the temptation to sink his fist into that arrogant face.

"Very well," he said, with no small amount of hesitation, "I will handle Bryling and Elisif accordingly. But tell me no more. I do not wish to sully myself in your... filth."

Erikur raised an eyebrow at that remark, but let it slide. "Good. Our business is concluded, then. You won't regret this, my Steward."

He offered his hand, and Falk shook it once more.

That night, after a long day of courtly proceedings, the Steward lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. Far off in the distance, the faint but beautiful colors of Skyrim's northern lights danced across the sky, casting long shadows about Falk's comfortable room. The woman in bed next to him twisted and turned, then opened one eye to study him.

"What troubles you, my love?" she murmured, seeing his furrowed brow.

"A great many things," he replied, letting out a long sigh, "Ourselves included."

Thane Bryling sat up in bed and looked Firebeard sharply in the face. "You wish an end to our affair?" she asked, matter-of-factly. That was her way, the Nord way: straightforward and honest, to the point of harshness.

He shook his head. "No. But I fear what would happen should we be discovered."

"I dislike all this sneaking about, Falk," Bryling replied, "Perhaps it would be a good turn for both of us."

Falk sighed again. "No. It isn't the time. We've too many adversaries who would use it against us - and Elisif, for that matter."

Bryling frowned. "We've spoken of this before," she pointed out, "And it seems as though we are both still willing to risk it. So stop bringing it up if you don't have anything new to contribute."

He smiled, envious and yet appreciative of her canderous nature.

"That's not all that worries you," she remarked after a moment. "What is it?"

"I can't tell you," he replied miserably. "I wish I could, but I can't."

He paused, but she did not speak, instead tilting her head slightly in concern. He knew that she would respect his privacy - it was something they'd both insisted upon when they'd began their tryst - but still he felt guilty. It concerned her - Gods above, it concerned _everyone_.

"Lately, what with all this trouble," he began, feeling slightly embarrassed as he put his helplessness into words, "I feel almost as if - as if the world is coming to an end."

He paused again before continuing his confession. Bryling remained silent.

"And not only am I hopeless to stop it, but I am aiding it along the way."

* * *

Whiterun's market was even busier than Jakt remembered. It had been a long time, true, and he'd spent a surprising amount of his previous visit intoxicated, but the market district was crushed with more people than he could recall. Not only that, but a dispiriting pallor hung low over the crowds, one that had not existed during his last visit.

 _My first dragon-slaying… much has changed here, it seems._

"Refugees, seeking the safety and comfort of high walls," Esbern muttered to Jakt, pointing to a ragged group of men, women and children who stood huddled about a makeshift tent squeezed between two homes. Jakt looked around to see several more tents and lean-tos, made from whatever their occupants could find, decorating the market ring.

It wasn't just those displaced that stank of desperation: the merchants and everyday market-goers looked haggard as well. Whiterun guards were posted in abundance, their sunflower yellow sleeves and brightly-painted shields clashing with tired faces and dull eyes.

It was late in the afternoon, and after travelling all morning in order to drop off Braith at the temple of Kynareth he was ready for a stiff drink and a feather bed. The little girl had been sad to leave them, but the Priestess at the enclave had welcomed her openly, promptly introducing her to several more children staying there. Braith had bid Grandpa Esbern and Sir Jakt a hopeful goodbye, and both had been relieved to find that the poor child would not be alone. Jakt's momentary flash of happiness did not last long, however, turning instead to melancholy when he saw the small crowd of children that the temple had come to host.

 _War orphans. Hope they don't turn out like I did._

"The Bannered Mare is too popular, too conspicuous," Jakt said, turning to Esbern as they picked their way through the marketplace, "Let's try the Drunken Huntsman instead."

"Afraid they might recognize you?" Esbern asked, raising an eyebrow, "In my experience, a crowd is the perfect place to blend in." He gesticulated with his index finger. "And I do have considerable experience, boy, in case you've forgotten."

"It's just that I'm, ah, familiar with the waitstaff." Jakt felt embarrassed admitting it. He never had found out the name of the Redguard waitress he'd... encountered last time.

Esbern's eyes twinkled in sudden understanding. "When it comes to keeping a low profile, your libido is your worst enemy," he said, chuckling.

All of a sudden there was a tug on his belt. He looked down to see a small girl with matted black hair, dressed in a simple faded dress stained with mud. She looked sick: she was gaunt and very pale, and the skin around her yellow eyes was dark and puffy. Under her arm she held a wicker basket full of wildflowers.

"Please sir," she coughed pitifully, "Will you buy a flower so I can eat? Just one Septim..."

Jakt was quickly discovering that he had a soft spot for children in need. He smiled and nodded, reaching into his satchel to retrieve his coinpurse. As he drew it out he reflected that it had lightened as of late, but ultimately decided that he could spare the one coin. By the time he retrieved a gold piece and looked back down at her - which really did not take him long at all - the little girl had completely vanished.

He frowned and looked around, confused. He thought he saw her disappear into a throng of bleary-eyed Bretons. Concerned, he elbowed his way towards her.

All of a sudden he came face to face with a hooded figure, shorter than he, dressed in otherwise unassuming garb. The hooded person moved to block his path, and before he knew it, two more similarly-dressed strangers stood behind him on either side, forming a perfect triangle. The crowd pressed them together and Jakt, straining hard to see below the hood of the first person, caught a glimpse of full lips pursed in a sinister smirk.

A dagger appeared in the stranger's hand and leapt forward, so quickly that it seemed to do so of its own volition. Jakt reacted instinctively, desperately, doing the only thing he could think might stop the impending blade.

He shouted a wall of unstoppable force into the crowd.

The hooded assassin exploded backwards, along with several others, their twisted and bodies toppling in an arc. Screams of alarm and cries of pain ringing in his ears, Jakt contorted his body desperately to avoid the attacks he was certain would follow from his rear.

His instinct proved correct, and the combination of his frantic dodge and unexpected shout confounded one of the hooded knife-wielders mid-lunge, an Argonian judging by the scaled tail that protruded from under the attacker's cloak. The Argonian's thrust went wide. The other assailant, however, corrected the trajectory of its slash, catching Jakt's outstretched left forearm between his stiff leather bracer and the scaled sleeves that he'd affixed to his armor in order to protect his upper arms.

The knife ripped through Jakt's thick cotton undershirt with ease, and white-hot pain slashed through his forearm. He was dimly aware that the small, shallow wound hurt more than it should have, but adrenaline surged through his body, purging such thoughts from his brain to better focus on survival.

Jakt understood that sooner or later the city guard would converge on his would-be assassins, leaving them only a brief window of opportunity in which to successfully murder him. All he had to do was survive long enough and, hopefully, the guardsmen would intervene on his behalf. The crowd was beginning to react to the tumult at this point, innocent onlookers scrabbling away from the pandemonium perpetrated by Jakt's attackers. The busy marketplace became a tangled mass of bodies, a hectic whirl of limbs spreading outward from the three figures locked in combat.

Jakt ducked a horizontal slice from the Argonian and countered with an uppercut to its stomach. His fist, reinforced by a scaled glove, connected with a stiff garment - it felt like boiled leather - sending a painful wave of shock down his arm. The Argonian let out an _oomph_ and doubled over, backpedaling awkwardly. Before Jakt could act on its momentary impairment, the other cloaked assassin led with a furious stab, forcing him to twist and slide out of harm's way.

The assassin, drab and genderless in a faded brown cloak, kept Jakt on the defensive, working the knife with practiced ease. Backtracking desperately, Jakt smacked into a frantic pedestrian and was rewarded with a neat slash on his outer thigh right below the scaled tassets that protected his upper legs. He noticed it for certain this time - the wound didn't just sting, it _burned._ His opponent, sensing victory, lunged forward, but Jakt managed to shove the poor, innocent bystander - a smallish Dunmer girl - out of his way just in time. He sidestepped the stab and grabbed his assailant's outstretched arm, then twisted around and pulled the stunned stranger up across his back and over his shoulder. The hooded assassin thudded hard against the ground and gave a satisfying cry of pain. It was a woman's voice.

His head began to ache.

Jakt had been holding off on drawing Dragonbane - its blade was too long to be used crowded marketplace without collateral damage - but the pain in his arm and leg strengthened the flames of contempt that had begun to churn in his gut. With a snap of his wrist he drew the sword from its sheathe on his back, reversing the grip in his hands to better execute his downed foe with a powerful, neat stab. He looked briefly over his shoulder to ensure that the Argonian he'd stunned hadn't yet recovered, and was greeted by a welcome sight: the guardsmen had finally gotten through the thinning crowds to engage the assassins.

He whirled back around to end the prone assassin's life, but before he could plunge his blade into her struggling form, he heard a _clink_ that was accompanied by a prickling pain in his side. He looked down to see a small crossbow quarrel buried in his scale jerkin, right above his left hip. The scales had mostly succeeded in stopping the projectile, which was too small to do any real damage; indeed, the wound felt like little more than a scratch.

Jakt looked up to see his very first assailant standing not four yards away, holding a small, one-handed crossbow. His shout had blown the assassin's hooded cloak clear, revealing a beautiful blonde-haired woman dressed in black and red leather. She holstered the weapon at her belt and reached to her belt to draw forth a matching set of curved daggers. Uncoiling her tensed body like a striking cobra, she shot forward, closing the distance faster than he could fathom. Her twin blades flashed in the afternoon sun, and with a lurch in his stomach he recognized the mottled grey alloy of her darting weapons - they were forged of ebony.

By the Nine, she was fast! She kept her center of gravity low, striking unpredictably: whirling like a tornado, turning on a Septim. Her hazy blue eyes were wide-open, her pupils dilated, focused like those of a predator on its prey. A pair of luscious lips curled in triumph under her aquiline nose as her braided hair traced elegant spirals through the air. Jakt worked Dragonbane furiously, trying to take advantage of the katana's length to keep her out of stabbing range. Ebony rang against ebony - a curious, low ring - as he turned each stab, slash and riposte away. _She couldn't be much older than me,_ he realized as he caught one of her feints on his blade, deflecting it with a forceful clang and lashing out with the pommel in an attempt to shatter her teeth. She pirouetted out of the way at the last possible second, coming back around with one of her deadly weapons and forcing him to snap his blade back desperately to meet her next slash.

All of a sudden Jakt felt his left leg falter and twist awkwardly, nearly sending him stumbling over backward. Off-balance, he barely managed to deflect a vicious double swipe before he looked down at the bolt buried in his side, confused. He could no longer feel the slight pain of the scratch: indeed, he felt a prickly numbness percolating throughout his torso and seeping into his left leg. All the while, the slashes on his right leg and forearm screamed a chorus of woe. Worse still, the throbbing in his head had crescendoed to an apex of agony, and his sinuses felt like they were clotted with tiny needles. He'd been wounded before, several times in fact, but the bizarre mixture of stinging pain and numbness did not feel like blood loss; besides, the wounds he'd received were too shallow for that kind of thing. The only logical conclusion, he realized with plummeting spirits, was poison.

Sucking in air like a beached horker after a long dive, Jakt felt his vision start to waver. Her attacks got harder and harder to predict, and Dragonbane - a superbly balanced weapon, a pinnacle of craftsmanship - felt heavy and unresponsive in his quivering hands. He knew it was only a matter of time before she overwhelmed him, and his only comfort was the sound of steel on steel that echoed around him, the shouts of men and women trying to kill each other, that meant that the guards were doing their job. If he could just hold on a little...

She slipped past his defenses after a particularly devastating flurry of stabs and slashes, deflecting his clumsy counterattack with one of her wicked ebony knives and raking the other across his chest. To his surprise, the skinny curved blade hewed the scales of his jerkin like a scythe through stalks of wheat, tracing a jagged line of torment across his chest.

He screamed out and stumbled backwards over a prone human form. His own voice sounded muffled, far away. He hardly felt his body's impact against the cobbled stone of the marketplace, as the numb feeling had completely enveloped his torso and trunk. He looked up through watery eyes to see the blonde assassin stalking forward. She had picked up Dragonbane and held it forth, twirling the long, curved sword without effort. His breath came in ragged gasps that echoed in his ears, drowning out the din of battle and the screams of the surrounding innocents. Jakt struggled to right himself with one hand but failed, slipping down to lay on his side. He swiveled his head up to see her standing over him, her unblinking gaze swimming in his fluid vision. She raised his own sword high above her head.

Dragonbane never fell. Instead she disappeared, replaced with a host of bodies that seemed to linger over him, their faces and shapes now too fuzzy for him to make out. Their mouths kept opening only to emit a low gibberish.

He was dimly aware that they were reaching down towards him. Jakt felt himself go weightless for a moment, suspended in mid air. The world spun around him for a quick second and then his vision faded to nothing.

* * *

Lysana Trystane was lost.

It took her three days to realize that she had descended east of Labyrinthian, opposite from their climb. The first sign that her rapid, disorienting plunge down the mountain had led her astray was the climate. When the slope had finally leveled off Lysana had found herself in the middle of a deciduous forest. A thick, humid mist enveloped her, severely reducing her line of sight. Most perplexing was the warmth - by Skyrim's standards it was practically balmy. She was relieved at first, jettisoning the impromptu wrappings she'd affixed to her extremities to ward off the frosty mountain air. Still reeling from the disturbing events at Labyrinthian, she did not question the damp, heavy warmth that gradually settled about her, warming her chilled bones.

Then she reached the swamp, and woke from her pleasant stupor with a jolt.

It seemed to spring out of nowhere: the ground became spongy, the trees barren, gnarled and twisted. Impassable patches of cattails and sawgrass rose up from putrid water, and the rustlings of tiny creatures filled her ears, punctuated occasionally by the hoot of an owl, the squeal of its prey, or a frog's lusty croak. The unwelcome odors of salty mud and decaying matter wafted up to bombard her nose.

 _Whiterun has no such wetlands,_ she thought to herself as she carefully extricated her boot from the chilly mud. _And the climate is too temperate for this time of year in the Valley._

Lysana found a dry patch of ground and made a haphazard camp. She had been up for nearly three days straight, and the small effort required nearly broke her. She gathered brush and ignited it with a feeble spell, then sat in front of the fire and meditated, trying to clear her exhausted mind and determine a new course of action. She deduced that she had just reached the edge of the Drajkmyr wetlands, the great salt marsh that stretched between the Upper Jerall range and the Haafingar mountains and drained north into the Sea of Ghosts. This put her on the other side of the Jeralls from Whiterun, the nearest safe haven she could think of where she could take advantage of the College's contacts. She would either have to circle around to the south of the mountains to enter Whiterun Valley from the east, which would take a week or more, or try to go back the way she came, which was most definitely _not_ an option.

The Drajkmyr was part of Hjaalmarch Hold, Skyrim's smallest and poorest province. Ruled from the lumber town of Morthal, the region was sparsely populated by fur trappers, loggers, and crannog dwellers, sometimes derisively called the Bogmen by the rest of Skyrim's native population. The Bogmen were a suspicious folk and quite unwelcoming, especially of magic users. This was unfortunate, as the College had a particular fascination with the Drajkmyr. Its magical aura was impenetrable and ancient, thicker and heavier than the perennial mist that hung low over the wetlands. Every once in a long while, the College sent an expedition into the marsh to determine the source. The excursions almost always came back empty handed, if they returned at all.

For the marsh was dangerous: on top of its sprawling, treacherous expanse, it was said to be haunted. Lysana had heard disturbing tales of will o' the wisps - beautiful floating baubles of pure light - luring travelers deep into the swamp, where they wandered, lost, until they collapsed and sank into the mud. She'd heard that vampires lurked in the wetlands, emerging from hidden dens under frozen lakes to seduce their victims with hideous untold perversions. Kelpies - malevolent water spirits that often took the form of beautiful black horses - were rumored to dwell in its misty depths, inviting curious children to ride on their backs and then drowning them in the brackish water of the swamp.

Lysana was a grown woman of considerable rational intelligence, but the prospect of striking off into the marsh on her own did not excite her. She was not entirely sure what she had experienced within Labyrinthian, but now that she was thinking a bit more clearly, she concluded that the horde of Draugr was some sort of army seeking to spread itself outward from its lair in the mountains. _Someone_ had to be warned - Whiterun was one obvious target - but Morthal was also close by, and likely to be overrun with little trouble.

She'd been there previously, during her time with the Dragonborn: while he trained with the Greybeards at High Hrothgar, she had traveled to a Nordic ruin called Ustengrav to retrieve some stupid artifact important to their order. Ustengrav was on the border of the Reach and Hjaalmarch, five days by foot from Whiterun, but the company she journeyed with, desperate for supplies and a warm bed, had made a brief detour into Morthal. It was a surreal experience: the village itself was built above the swamps on a foundation of docks, stilts and crannogs. The villagers were terse and reclusive, reluctant to do business with outsiders (with the exception of the innkeeper, who was overjoyed at their fresh company). Lysana had left it behind eagerly, hardly intent on returning anytime soon. That had been many months ago, and she doubted any in the morose village would care to remember her.

Morthal would be her next destination, then. Her decision made, Lysana allowed exhaustion to overtake her. She barely had time to crawl into her bedroll before she fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

She awoke several hours later to the telltale rustling of footsteps through tall grass. She opened her eyes slowly. The twin moons hung high above her, peeking through the perpetual shroud of mist.

A robed figure stood nearby, arms clasped together, hands hidden in long sleeves. She sat up, but, sensing no ill intent, decided to greet the figure with a word instead of a spell.

"Who are you?"

The stranger stepped forward. It was a man, a Redguard; his dark skin glinted in the misty moonlight. It was impossible to tell his age from his face; he wore a calm and measured expression that bespoke of wisdom and experience, with just a touch of melancholy. The wrinkles of age had passed him by, it seemed, for his face was smooth, his cheeks full, his jawline slender and taut. He was clearly not a young man, however, and he kept his head partially tonsured like a monk: she recognized the style as that of Alik'r mages.

"I am Falion," he murmured, bowing low to her. "You are known to me, Lysanna Trystane, once of Jehanna, now Acolyte of Winterhold."

Lysanna's felt a surge of acrimony at the mention of her surname, but it was eclipsed by a growing sense of uneasiness.

"You are a mage, then?" she reasoned, slipping out of her bedroll to stand and curtsey in reply. "Have you ties with the College?"

Falion frowned and shook his head. "At one time, perhaps," he said, "But that time has long gone."

"How do you know of me?" Lysana asked, her confusion mounting. Her ego was not so large and unwieldy that she allowed herself to believe random magic-users had knowledge of her work.

"The Sight," he explained, his brow furrowing.

Lysana's eyes went wide. The ability to tell the future was one of the least understood aspects of mysticism, the school of magic that was itself arguably the most obscure. It was a gift most rare.

"You see visions? The future?"

"Not I," the mage clarified, "But my master. Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone, of Morthal. She bid me travel here, to intercept you."

Lysana shook her head in disbelief. A skeptic through and through, she had trouble accepting such a tale - though at the least, Falion did not appear untrustworthy or malevolent.

"What would the Jarl ask of a lowly apprentice acolyte?"

Falion's frown deepened. "She does not ask a boon from you. The Sight does not work that way - my master only knows that you are important. She seeks to answer why."

Lysana did not reply.

"Her visions have been… muddled as of late. Age dims the mind, and Skyrim's chaos creates ripples in her dream aether; ripples that clutter and confuse."

Lysana exhaled silently. She was unsure whether or not to trust the man. Falion lapsed into silence, awaiting her reply. After several moments, Lysana decided to indulge him - her options were limited as it was.

"I have… seen something," Lysana began, "Something terrible, that would seek to enslave or destroy us all."

"Something not of this world, I take it? Not the trappings of Empire, nor Ulfic and his dogs of war. Not even the Elves, with their unique brand of tyranny. Something so foul that it might even penetrate the Drajkmyr." Falion's eyes seemed to glow with fear and - _what else?_ \- a morbid excitement, perhaps.

She nodded. "Draugr. Awoken by the dragons' return, I suspect."

Falion scratched at his chin. "Yes - the blue-eyed wraiths. They stalk the swamp as of late, as they have not done for eons. That would explain much."

"An army gathers at Labyrinthian," she continued. "Thousands of them, at least. They are led by some sort of magician, or priest - I don't know what. They call him Morokei."

At the name, Falion blanched.

"What? You know of him?"

"A legend," Falion began hesitantly, "Albeit one based in historical fact. The terror of Hjaalmarch, during the Merethic era, or so the tale goes. He was a dragon priest - A powerful wizard, granted power and influence by the dragons. He ruled from the seat of Bromjunaar, oppressing the ancient Nords at the behest of his draconic masters. Those enslaved included the ancestors of Morthal's people. Though the details have faded, the memories, though ancient, remain."

"What interest does Falion, court wizard of Hjaalmarch, have in such legends?" Lysana mused, crossing her arms over her chest.

Falion shrugged. "Tell me," he deflected, "Does Savos Aren still sit as Archmage of Winterhold?"

When she nodded, he continued, "Then you should ask him of Morokei - the Dragon Priests were a particular obsession of Aren's."

"You were a student of his?"

"A peer," Falion corrected with a sniff. Her assumption, it seemed, had touched upon an old wound. "We… disagreed about how magic ought to be taught. Savos always looked to the past - I told him it would destroy him one day. Legends and myths of magic long spent are best left buried."

"Unfortunate, then, that a race of magical beings thought to be dead for thousands of years have returned to plague us," Lysana said, lacing her tone with a hint of sarcasm.

Falion raised an eyebrow. "The rules do not apply to Alduin - his nature is cyclical, not linear. His magic does not bow to the flow of time, not as we perceive it."

"That must be why you serve Ravencrone, then," Lysana reasoned, "Her gift, that is - to see the future, to challenge the shackles of time and fate."

The wizard shrugged again. "It is intriguing, a rare gift indeed. The Jarl is a clever old woman, and I daresay she does not make it easy to observe or study her precognitions. I will admit a great personal fascination with her, and her lineage: long have her ancestors possessed the Sight. But that is not my main area of magical focus - and that is a discussion best left for another time."

There was something vaguely off-putting about his words, but Lysana decided to honor his suggestion. Her unease, however, did not abate. _Have I made a mistake, to trust this strange swamp mage?_

"I came here to deliver a message, from the Jarl." Falion continued, "You know the full extent of the terror that plagues Skyrim - and yet you also know our last hope. Or so she spoke."

"I think I know where this is going," Lysana said wryly.

"The Dragonborn is come; he walks among us" the mage continued, ignoring her, "Yet he… hesitates. He shelters himself, preparing for that which has already come to pass. He must take his place on the board, or the game is lost. It may be already."

"He's trying to recruit dragonslayers," Lysana said impatiently, "Rebuilding the Blades. So the rumor goes, at least. Surely they are of better aid to him than I ever was."

"He will fail in his attempts," Falion murmured, "Idgrod has foreseen it. He beats at a corpse abandoned by life long ago. His trajectory must be… corrected."

Lysana felt a new, fresh chill run down her spine. She did not like the certainty with which Falion spoke - after all, hadn't he just said how unreliable and convoluted the Jarl's gift truly was?

"What do you mean? He won't succeed in training others to help him? Or -"

"It matters not," Falion interrupted firmly, "Your fates are intertwined, the two of you. He must have your aid."

His words made Lysana uncomfortable and angry.

"Now we are veering into the realm of prophecy," She said sardonically, "A most capricious, fallible, downright _idiotic_ domain. Unless you mean to tell me Idgrod has an Elder Scroll up her sleeve."

Falion's eyes flashed in momentary annoyance. 'Of course not," he snapped, before returning to a more cerebral tone. "But the Jarl _has_ dreamt that a Scroll -"

"Please, spare me," Lysana did not bother to keep the scorn from her voice, "I've had enough of this. Your master may truly have this power, I can't know for sure, but I've an important task to complete, and the ravings of a loony old woman with delusions of grandeur aren't _quite_ enough to convince me to rush off to give my life for some foolish boy facing an impossible task."

Falion cocked his head in a way that Lysana found conspicuously elvish. Then he sighed.

"The Circle always did prioritize short-term achievement over prudence and foresight. Perhaps the Dragonborn is fortunate that one so doubtful of his abilities does not travel beside him." He said his words quietly, observationally, without judgement.

Lysana felt her cheeks redden. Her first instinct was to lash out further, but she did not reply to his statement. Instead, a strange feeling gently prickled away at her frustration. It took her a moment to recognize that it was shame.

"Regardless of what I think," she said after a moment, choosing her words carefully, "Morthal and Whiterun must be warned of what gathers in the mountains."

Falion nodded. "I will guide you through the marsh," he said, somewhat reluctantly, or so she thought. "The quickest way to Whiterun is through Morthal."

Lysana nodded wearily. She came to the sudden realization that she hadn't exactly been forthcoming, grateful, or even mildly agreeable towards him, and her shame only grew. "Very well. I've not much in the way of supplies, though, and traversing the Drajkmyr… well…"

She didn't want to finish her thought and betray her trepidation. Luckily, Falion understood.

"I know the swamp well," he said, inclining his head ever so slightly, "Follow closely in my footsteps and no danger will come to you."

Lysana only nodded in return.

* * *

Consciousness kept slipping away from Jakt like a well-greased skeever. A curious grey twilight, like the empty space between worlds, grasped at him with a strong, greedy hand. He flitted in and out of awareness, his fevered, anxious dreams blending with brief moments of clarity, coupled with searing pain. His chest screamed in agony, when he could feel anything at all.

Occasionally he would awake - or so it seemed - to find Whiterun burning. Black-hooded figures stalked about him, cruel blades in their hands, soft laughter on their lips. Great winged beasts circled above, bathing in the fire and destruction that consumed the city. One, scales darker than the rest, crowned with horns, hovered above Jakt like a rogue thundercloud. Occasionally it would speak in harsh, guttural language. Jakt only understood a few words, but the implication was clear.

 _Dovahkiin - you are nothing._

One prominent silhouette reached up with inky black hands to remove its hood, revealing a beautiful young sorceress with red hair and a freckled face. She smiled wistfully for a moment before the first moonstone-tipped arrow slammed into her torso, followed by another. The shafts, fletched with golden feathers, materialized out of thin air, arcing gracefully through the haze to pierce her body, smoke trailing in their wake. Her piercing eyes blinked away blood-red tears as she sunk to her knees. Her mouth opened in a silent scream. Then she melted away, one more fevered hallucination.

A blonde Nordic woman stalked him through a forest, clad in wolfskin and brandishing two nightmarish knives forged of shadow and flame. She seemed to fade in and out of the mist, appearing first in his peripheral vision, then over his shoulder, and finally in front of him. She laughed in _His_ voice, spoke _Their_ language, then rushed forward, a howling whirlwind that erased everything it touched.

A man appeared, tall and thick, blond and bearded, clad in bearskin and loosely brandishing a long-handled battle axe. He stood on a field of battle, surrounded by corpses clad in black and gold, but he was untouched. Warmth rolled off him in waves, but Jakt couldn't see his face; it was blurred, unfocused. A splotch of blue decorated where his left eye might have been. The man turned around and walked away, towards a far-off mountain peaked with snow and ice.

 _Father…_

He became aware of a pressing need to scratch his chest. His arms were clumsy and dense; with great effort, he raised his hand and maneuvered it from his side to his torso. Something soft and cotton protected the itch: it was wrapped tightly around it, trapping it in. He grunted and opened his eyes to get a better sense of the troublesome object.

Cruel light speared his sensitive eyeballs. He cried out, screwing them shut. A voice to his left spoke, surprised, but Jakt was too disoriented to understand the words. He blinked several times and tried to sit up, but the itch in his chest burst into a chorus of pain. He flopped back down onto what he understood to be a thick, soft mattress - the kind he hadn't slept upon in many nights. His stomach suddenly felt very empty and his throat quite parched.

"Water," he croaked, pawing outward toward the voice, which was now accompanied by another. Some scuffling ensued, and Jakt felt a cold metal goblet touch his palm. He grasped the vessel and opened his eyes ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of his benefactor.

It was an old man's face - familiar. _Esbern._ Jakt felt a rush of relief: the old Blade was alive! He opened his eyes fully, discovering that the harsh-seeming light in reality was quite dim, emanating from several lit candles that decorated the room. It had no windows, and the walls were stone, but it was richly furnished.

Esbern looked ragged and worn, even by his standards. The bags under his eyes were even more pronounced than usual. Another grey-bearded Nord man sat beside him. Whereas Esbern was tall and scrawny, this man was built like a fighter, barrel-chested and thick-necked. Esbern's short-cropped beard couldn't hold a candle to his friend's, which was quite lengthy and seemed to waver and bristle. His face was scarred and weathered, adorned with a pair of small, pale eyes. There was something strangely feral about him: the way his steel-grey hair rippled like fur, or perhaps his long, pointed nose that seemed to crinkle up like a canine snout when he scowled. He wore a dark wool tunic decorated with the motif of a silver wolf, which Jakt found appropriate. He held himself in the proud manner of a warrior, perhaps past his prime, but formidable nonetheless.

"About time you woke up," Esbern said, standing up with a groan. His tone was neutral, even impatient, but Jakt could see relief brimming in his eyes.

"How long have I been out?" Jakt said, after downing the glass of water. It was frigid, and washed through his mouth like snowmelt, freeing his tongue from its desiccated stupor. The dull ache in his head began to recede, but only slightly. His jaw felt sore.

"Several days," the stranger said. He had a thick provincial accent; his voice was raspy and rough. In his hand he clasped a mahogany smoking pipe; strong, sweet smoke wafted up from the wide end, which was ringed with silver.

"Our friends in the marketplace coated their blades with something pretty nasty," Esbern said, shifting his eyes towards the other man and wrinkling his nose at the pungent odor of the pipeweed, "Deathbell, we're pretty sure. It's made the healing process slow - any attempt at alchemy has proven fruitless."

"They were fast," Jakt admitted, "What happened? After I -"

"You were lucky," the thicker Nord grumbled, furrowing his bushy eyebrows. "Several perished: guardsmen, ill-prepared to face such methods of the cloak and dagger." He reached over to the table beside him and picked up a small, thin oject. It was a tiny bolt, fletched with crimson feathers.

"That's right," Jakt murmured, remembering the one-handed crossbow his assailant had brandished. He pressed his hand to his side, identifying a small scar where the bolt had pricked his flesh. It hadn't hurt - the opposite, rather. The flesh that ringed the small wound was still slightly numb from whatever had coated it. He felt a pang of guilt. _More dead - innocent men, no less - because of me._

He forced himself to concentrate. What had Cosnach said, upon his rescue from the Forsworn? He and Marcurio and poor Benor, struck down by hooded assassins wielding tiny crossbows with poisoned-tip quarrels…

"It must have been dipped in... something." Jakt said, "Not poison, but some sort of anesthetic - a sleeping potion, or medicine perhaps."

"Canis root extract," the pipe-smoking old man rumbled, "Even a light dosage has a strong paralyzing effect. Strong doses can kill: the heart stops beating."

He cleared his throat and shook his head once. "A coward's tool - perfect for those sneaking in the shadows, too afraid to face a man with naked steel in hand."

Jakt looked at Esbern quizzically at the old warrior's words. Esbern just rolled his eyes.

"Jakt, allow me to introduce Kodlak Whitemane," he said, "Harbinger of the Companions of Jorrvaskr."

Jakt was dimly aware of the Companions: a mercenary band, but one that held itself to a strict set of principles. The name carried no small weight amongst the sellsword circles he had once frequented in southern Tamriel, but he'd heard negative comments thrown around as well - words like inflexible, old-fashioned, and sanctimonious.

Kodlak took a puff of his pipe, paused, and exhaled a perfect ring of smoke. "You're the Dragonborn everyone's yammered on about?" He raised an eyebrow skeptically as he spoke. "Talk is cheap, it seems."

Jakt got the feeling Kodlak wasn't impressed. It made him feel defensive. Before he could retort, Esbern spoke.

"Now now, Kodlak," he chastised, his delivery meant to mock, "Even the biggest, baddest, _smelliest_ warrior is plenty susceptible to a poisoned blade in the ribs, wielded cleverly and covertly by a lesser man."

"I'm sorry," Jakt said, irritated and amused at the same time, "But how do you know one another?"

"Kodlak is a Blade sympathizer," Esbern replied, "Or an elf-hater, rather."

"Not true," grumbled Whitemane, "We've a Dunmer in the ranks now, Esbern. Fights smarter and braver than most of my ilk. The Thalmor boil my blood black like any good Nord, 'tis true, but I'm no Stormcloak."

"Yes, well, he saved my life regardless, when they hunted me. But that was long ago."

Jakt was surprised. "An Imperial loyalist, then?" he asked Kodlak. He tried to keep any indication of judgement out of his tone, but Kodlak's snort in reply indicated that he had failed in that regard.

"Son," the old Nord said, "Battles fought twixt brothers aren't worth the blood spilled. I've no dog in this war, uncivil as it is. The Companions have naught but better to do - keep Skyrim safe, for one. And right now neither Ulfric nor the Empire have her best interests at heart."

Jakt looked over at Esbern: he was nodding slowly, but clearly not paying attention fully. Jakt decided to change the subject.

"Where are we?" he asked, though he had a pretty good idea already.

"Jorrvaskr," Esbern replied, confirming Jakt's suspicions. He knew a little about it: said to be the oldest structure in Whiterun, it was a huge mead hall built by the first men. Upon his last visit to Whiterun, they hadn't had the time to investigate it, though its sweeping architecture had certainly caught Jakt's eye.

"Does anyone -"

"Know you're here?" Esbern interrupted, finishing his query. He looked uncomfortable. "Yes. I mean, no. Er - well, _almost_ no one does."

"Esbern, who knows? Balgruuf?"

"No, no, not Balgruuf," Esbern said, shaking his head frantically. "Er, some chap.. Well, let's just say our hooded friends aren't the only ones who've been keeping an eye out for you."

The old Blade's manner, usually so cantankerous and unapologetic, was beginning to make Jakt uneasy.

"Esbern… what aren't you telling me?"

Before he could reply, there came a sharp rap on the door. Kodlak rose, shoving past a fidgeting Esbern and throwing open the heavy wooden portal.

In stepped three men, all dressed in dull, unassuming leather garb. The man in the middle gestured to the two flanking him; they went and stood by the door. They looked conspicuously like soldiers - the way they held themselves, obeyed silent orders without a query or a qualm - reeked of military discipline. Jakt threw the covers from his legs and forced himself to sit up, to put on a pretence of wariness, but his chest ached horribly, along with the wounds in his arm and sides. _Couldn't even fight off an angry mudcrab, let alone a trio of soldiers._ He silently thanked Mara for the fact that his rescuers had deigned not to remove his trousers.

Their superior held a plate full of food in his arms. He walked towards Jakt, nodding respectfully to both Esbern and Kodlak as he passed. A familiar smell wafted towards Jakt's nose: roasted pork, potatoes, topped with leeks. His stomach awoke in a fury, yearning for nourishment.

Jakt restrained himself from pouncing on the meal and instead looked closely at the man who held it. He was an Imperial, tall and thin, with a young man's face. He had a shiny black goatee that was accompanied by a week's worth of stubble that made him appear haggard. A full head of straight black hair was barely visible behind a rough-hewn cotton head-wrap. Though his smile was wide, his eyes were small and cold. There was an air of familiarity about him that Jakt couldn't place.

He held the plate forward and bowed slightly. "Compliments of Legate Rikke." When he spoke, Jakt remembered the man.

" _You_ ," he snarled, leaning back. There was not much he could actually do, but the gesture was enough to make the Imperial recoil.

"You know each other?" Esbern said, hesitantly.

"Aye, we've met," Jakt said, giving the man his best evil eye. "Gaius Maro, Imperial spook and a real son of a bitch. I'm surprised you'd let a snake such as he into Jorrvaskr's hallowed halls, Kodlak."

"Your words wound me, Jakt," the Imperial said, widening his eyes in mock outrage and placing a hand on his chest. He set the plate at the bedside table. "I'd so looked forward to our little reunion."

He gestured to Esbern, grinning widely. "Look, you've even accomplished your little task!"

"What in Oblivion's he on about?" Kodlak grunted. He hadn't taken well to Jakt's flippant remark, it seemed, for his cheeks had gone red and his beard started to quiver in discontent.

"Ah," Esbern interrupted, understanding. "He must have been the one who interrogated you, after the embassy heist." He looked Maro up and down. "Penitus Oculatus?"

Maro clapped his hand. "A clever old man, this Esbern. Surprising, given that he's an ex-Blade."

Esbern only cackled in reply. "Don't you fret, Jakt," he said as he turned towards him, "We're in little danger. The Penitus Oculatus are nothing but oafish pretenders, high off Titus Mede's farts."

The young Imperial laughed. "Funny that, coming from the last of a decrepit order hunted to extinction by a bunch of fancy, foppish elves."

Kodlak slammed his fist down on the wooden table beside him. "Enough! Lieutenant Maro, Legate Rikke - a dear friend - vouched for you, so you'd do best not to embarrass her in mine eyes. And as for you two -" he swept a mean glare over Esbern, then Jakt, "You should know that Maro and his 'oafish pretenders' saved _both_ your arses during the marketplace attack."

Jakt looked back at Maro, and was surprised to see the man looking slightly sheepish. After a moment the Imperial spoke.

"Whitemane has the right of it. Rikke sends her regards."

"Why doesn't she deliver them herself, then?" Jakt replied, not bothering to disguise the feelings of dislike and mistrust that stirred in his gut.

"Rikke is… well, she's clever," Maro replied, beginning to pace. "She understands that right now you're of more use as an independant than as an ally, cut-and-dried."

"I'd sooner-"

Maro cut him off, rolling his eyes as he spoke. "Yes, yes. Spare me your scorn, I've no interest in hearing it once more. But appearances can be misleading, which is why we meet now in a nonpartisan house, under the hospitality of a neutral party." He gestured to Kodlak, who took another long draw of his pipe and narrowed his eyes.

"After all, we wouldn't want Ulfric and his boys turning away the likes of the Dragonborn just because some fool milk-drinker spotted him in the company of an Imperial Legate."

Jakt's stomach turned. "You knew-"

"Oh, we knew all along, Jakt," Maro said, "You've made quite the name for yourself, in the circles that we shadows tread. I've been keeping an eye on you for some time now, since even before your reckless embassy heist. While you've been sodding off down in the Reach, building yourself a nice little fanclub, matters in the mainland have boiled to a fever pitch."

"How?" Jakt felt frustrated, out of control. "What do you mean, keeping an eye on me?"

Maro shook his head. "I can't let you know that - and though you'll not believe me, it's actually in your best interest."

"Gwynlach," Esbern muttered, shaking his head.

Jakt looked to him, raising his eyebrows. "You really think she'd-"

"Delphine was right, I'd wager," Esbern mused, "She's an informer, but not for Rhydderch or any of the rest of his brethren." he turned meaningfully towards Maro. "A manipulative serpent you are indeed. Perhaps the Inner Eye has managed to extract itself from it's own inner arse after all." His expression and words were cutting, but Jakt could detect an undercurrent of respect in the old Blade's voice.

Maro, to his credit, smiled. "Very well, master Blade," he replied, "The Forsworn girl served as our eyes in the Reach. I divulge that tidbit to you in good faith. Do what you will with her should your paths cross again, but know that she acted on the understanding that we sought to protect you - as we have."

As usual upon dealing with the Empire, Jakt felt small, out of control. He struggled to regain some sort of momentum, but Maro's revelations were coming too quickly for him to process. He was disappointed in Gwynlach, but the guilt he still felt for killing her kin, along with the girl's strange, inexplicable attachment to him, calmed his ire somewhat.

"I don't blame the girl, Maro," he said, "And I shant hold it against her. But I'll not meet with her again - she is beyond my trust."

"Some would contend that she was beyond your trust from the start," Esbern noted quietly. Jakt huffed uncomfortably, knowing the old man was right once again.

Maro shrugged. "Your decision."

"Why did you go to such lengths to watch over me?" Jakt changed the subject, for he was genuinely curious. After all, mere months prior the Empire had nearly taken his head.

Maro laughed. "Isn't it obvious? You're Dragonborn. This war - Ulfic, and the Thalmor, for that matter - they're longer-term problems. The Dragon Crisis has worsened, I'm afraid, during your self-imposed exile. Tullius and Ulfric have both suspended large swathes of their campaigns in order to shore up their borders against his new threat. My superiors in the region have decreed the resolution of the dragon threat to be the Penitus Oculatus' main objective from now on."

He paused and placed his fingertips together before continuing. "I'd have preferred we not meet again - to have handled you from afar, so to speak. But recent developments have… forced my hand."

"You refer to our hooded assailants," Esbern grumbled.

"Who were they?" Jakt asked, swallowing his annoyance at the concept of being "handled" to instead focus on the matter at hand.

Maro's general air of smug superiority disappeared. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand while he stared at the ground.

"Yes, well," he began slowly, "We have reason to believe that they belong to a small cult of assassins known as the Dark Brotherhood."

Jakt snorted. "'Dark Brotherhood?'" he began, his tone mocking, "They've a flair for the dramatic, or so it seems."

Maro didn't seem to find any humor in the situation, but more surprisingly, neither did Esbern.

"Impossible," the old Blade growled, "The Brotherhood? They're dead. Long dead, and buried deep."

'Yes," Maro said, after an awkward pause, "Allegedly. Between the Blades, the Oculatus, and, surprisingly enough, the Thalmor, we thought they'd been stamped out for good."

"Just who are they?" Jakt asked, confused and still a little nonplussed. His chest ached, his head hurt, and he was beginning to feel quite fatigued by Maro's bubbling brook of steady information. He chanced a look over to Kodlak, who sat in the corner puffing his pipe, apparently unfazed.

"The Brotherhood spans back an age," Esbern said, "Assassins first and foremost, but also shrewd shapers of situations both political and economic. They've stuck their black-fingered hand into every major political upheaval since the Septims first came to power - the War of the Red Diamond, the Oblivion Crisis, the Warp in the West - you name it."

"Let's just say they're… extremely competent," Maro continued, "On top of that, they worship some sort of shadow god, who grants them dark, evil powers."

" _Sithis_ ," Esbern spat the name out like a curse. "Neither Daedra nor Aedra, but rather a deification of nothingness - an aspect of utter misanthropy." He shuddered. "Necrosis incarnate."

Jakt raised his hands. "Hang on, Esbern," he said, not quite leaning in to the alarming turn their conversation had taken. "Are we sure they're really who you think they are? I mean, didn't you say they'd been hunted to extinction?"

"Let's see," Maro began, holding up his hand and counting on his fingers. "Three dark-robed killers, utilizing poison-coated blades and sophisticated handheld crossbows, attacked you, the Dragonborn, in the middle of the afternoon in a crowded marketplace, murdered two of my boys and three of Whiterun's watch in the process, put you in a coma, and then escaped _completely_ unscathed."

He turned a patronizing glare on Jakt. "A brutally daring attempt, with a taste of theatricality, executed with deadly precision. Not to mention that they left this at the scene - the Brotherhood's calling card."

He withdrew a folded piece of parchment and passed it to Jakt. He opened it to find it blazoned with the familiar symbol of a black hand. Jakt felt a stab of dread: Cosnach had handed him a similar parchment.

"You think a shadowy organization like that would stick to subterfuge," Jakt said after a moment, using his annoyance at Maro's condescending tone to mask his growing anxiety.

"Not if they're trying to make a point," Esbern interjected, "Or to re-establish a sense of dominance. Historically, the Brotherhood was as much a business as it was a cult: Assassinations don't exactly happen on the cheap. Can you think of a better way to get yourself noticed in this time of troubles than to kill the Dragonborn?"

"Assassinate the Emperor," Maro said matter of factly. He followed up his remark with an incredulous chuckle.

"So you think they're trying to kill me just to turn a few heads?" Jakt said, skeptically.

"Well, probably not just that," Esbern said, itching his beard. "My guess is they've got a client. They need coin to operate, like any enterprise."

"Can you think of anyone who wants to kill you?" Maro asked, smirking.

Jakt's head was beginning to spin. This was all too much. The smell of the food perched on the bedside table beside him was making his mouth water.

"Quite a few have tried," he replied miserably, "More as of late."

"Perhaps we finish this talk at a later time," Kodlak finally spoke. He leaned forward. "The Dragonborn is not fully healed."

"Very well," Maro said, "I must take my leave anyways - I am needed elsewhere. Before I go, however, it would be best to discuss our next steps."

" _Our_ next steps?" Esbern asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Apologies, how misleading of me. I care not where you go," the Imperial spy clarified, "As long as you pursue our joint goal and figure out a way to solve the dragon crisis. It's in everyone's best interest that you succeed, after all."

"So we're to be your agents now?" Jakt asked, gritting his teeth.

"Hardly that," Maro replied, raising an eyebrow, "Contractors, at best. How you do it is up to your discretion, and I'll instruct my agents not to meddle unecessarily. But you must leave the Brotherhood to me and the Penitus Oculatus."

"No skin off our backs," Esbern said sardonically. "Sure you can handle them?"

Maro walked to the door, motioning to his two guards, neither of which had said a word or moved a muscle. One opened the door for him and stepped through; the other stepped forward, positioning himself behind his superior. Maro turned to look back at them before going through.

"I certainly hope so," he said, looking them both in the eye. His grim, almost dejected tone did little to inspire Jakt. Then he was gone, the door clunking shut behind him.

"Great," Esbern muttered, "There's another variable to contend with."

Kodlak grunted. "Be thankful he was following you," he chastised Esbern, "If not for him and his ilk, you'd have perished."

"I guess we know what we're up against, thanks to him," Jakt said, glumly. He didn't particularly care for the arrogant Imperial, and was not enthusiastic about being followed around by his Penitus Oculatus stooges. But he had to admit that Maro had saved him from almost certain death - and gifted him valuable information.

"You can smuggle us out of the city, Kodlak?" Esbern asked, changing the subject. "We can't chance leaving through the gates."

"Aye," the old warrior stood. "Through the Underforge. Though the boy needs further rest before your journey."

Jakt lunged towards the nearby plate and began wolfing down the meat and potatoes. Somehow it was the best meal he'd ever tasted in his life.

"I'll be fine," he said between bites, "I can heal on the road."

He finished quickly and looked up to see Esbern and Kodlak both looking a little repulsed at his uncultured display of rapid consumption. His hunger sated, he put down the dish and raised himself gingerly from the bed. Standing on both legs felt a little strange, and the half-healed wounds on his limbs and torso throbbed their complaints. He swayed for a moment before stabilizing himself.

"Where are my things?" he asked, frowning at the effort it took to stand.

Esbern's expression turned uneasy.

"Well, erhm," he began, stammering in an uncharacteristic way, "The chestpiece of your cuirass was torn to bits - we'll have to replace it. The rest was okay."

"And Dragonbane?" he asked slowly, looking around the room. The sword was nowhere in sight, and Esbern's obvious agitation was making him nervous.

Kodlak and Esbern exchanged a look.

"Esbern?"

"It's… gone." the old man replied guiltily. "We think, ergh, we think one of the assassins may have taken it."

Jakt lowered himself back down to the bed slowly. The frigid fingers of despair clutched at his heart.

"Shit."

* * *

A/N: Gaius Maro was originally supposed to be a bit character, but I enjoyed writing him so much last time that I brought him back for more! In any case, now the original triumvirate (Drake, Lysana, Jakt) is back. Sorry for the sporadic nature of chapter uploads - I will try to update more frequently in the future. For now, comments and criticism are always welcome!


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